


Something There

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beast!Sam, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Bottom Sam, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Codependent brothers, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Movie Reference - Disney's Beauty and the Beast, Original Character(s), Pining, Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Sam doesn't go to Stanford because he gets kidnapped instead, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Soulmates, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 56,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5404457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a tale as old as time - there's an apocalypse looming and Sam and Dean are caught in the middle. Just another day for the Winchesters, except this time Sam's been kidnapped, leaving Dean to befriend Heaven and fight Hell to get him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was my NaNoWriMo 2015 though its conception and planning began long, long before November. It was meticulously planned and researched and talked through with my amazing and ridiculously supportive muse, beta, bestie [@Dancing_Adrift](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift), without whom all my half-assed ideas would be dead in the water. She is always by my side every step of the way and this one is my biggest to date; I could've never done it without you, darling ❤️
> 
> In a (very) few instances I borrow dialogue heavily from our beautiful show, in particular the scenes with Azazel, because frankly he is scary as shit and his characterization is everything I could want in an uber creepy bad guy. Also, as much as I wanted to do an (obviously) canon divergent tale, I still wanted to be faithful to the storylines and characters that I love so freakin' much.

Dean dreamt of his last day with his brother more often than not. Realistically he knew he must dream about other things, too, but this dream… he had it over and over. It was the one he remembered most and it was always as vivid as the day he lived it, preserved perfectly by his memory as if kept safely embedded in amber for centuries, though it had only been two years, three months, twenty-one days and who knows how many hours ago. Not that Dean was counting.

It was the day before Sam’s eighteenth birthday, but they’d been so wrapped up in a case at the time that Dean had kind of lost track of the date. To be fair, the case was particularly gruesome - a restless spirit that was possessing one of a sibling pair and making them torture the other before taking both their lives - and it had unsurprisingly hit a little close to home for all three Winchesters. When they had finally salted and burned the bastard, John just dropped off the boys, drenched with rain and covered in mud from arduous hours spent digging up a grave, at the closest motel and then took off to rendezvous with Bobby on some new, pressing matter. They’d been so tired but Dean could still see clear as day the goofy, relief-driven smile on his little brother’s face. Dean could never be sure if it was relief to be given a break from Dad, or the fact they’d just kicked some serious ass and the adrenaline was lifting him up, but he was fairly sure in this instance it was both. He’d grinned back at him - because how could he not - ruffled Sam’s dripping, dirty hair, and slung an arm around his kid brother’s shoulders as they hauled their duffle bags into the motel room before them.

He’d let Sam shower first because it was chilly and he couldn’t turn off his ‘concerned big brother’ mode if he tried. Might as well have asked him to stop breathing or some other ridiculous and equally impossible thing. Sam was soaked through and Dean would feel better when he knew he was clean, warm, and dry. While he waited, he dried and cleaned their weapons so they wouldn’t rust, sipping at a beer and feeling easy despite being cold and wet, the sounds of the shower competing with the crappy radio he had playing on the table. When Sam stumbled out of the bathroom surrounded by a cloud of steam and wearing nothing but his boxers and a clean t-shirt, shaking his shaggy hair and towelling off his face, Dean tried not to let his eyes linger and instead peeled himself from the vinyl covered chair that his wet clothes had adhered to. Sam had looked at him sheepishly at the sound it made, and Dean knew he felt guilty for having had the first shower uncontested, and maybe more so because he knew, same as always, that Dean would never have it any other way.

When Dean was refreshed and clean too, he came back into the room to find Sam sitting on the far bed, his back against the headboard and hugging his knees up to himself. He was still looking a little sheepish to Dean, like he was contemplating asking him something in that kid-brother kind of way that, at seventeen, he only busted out for real favours, and only ever if Dad wasn’t around. Dean could see goosebumps on his arms from where he stood on the opposite side of the room.

“Sammy?” Dean prompted, knowing.

“I can’t get the air conditioning to shut off. It’s fucking freezing in here.” His teeth chattered audibly as he spoke as if to prove his point. Dean glanced over at the unit set in the wall under the window before looking back and eyeing his little brother. Sam had shot upwards as if overnight and Dean still had trouble reconciling the ridiculously - _troublingly_ \- tall, lean and lanky person before him with the soft, boyish kid who’d spent the last seventeen years doubling as Dean’s shadow. Now that he’d grown _up_ , the kid still had to fill _out_. No wonder he was freezing. Though, by the time Dean grabbed a t-shirt out of his duffle to throw on, he had to agree that it was pretty damn chilly in the room. He spent a good ten minutes playing with the dials and the power button, but try as he might he couldn’t get the damn thing to turn off either.

“Well, Sam, unless we shoot it or rip open the wall to cut off the power supply, I think we’re shit out outta luck.” He gave up and turned back towards their beds, thinking about digging around in their duffle in case they’d maybe stowed a hoodie or two in there.

“Thanks for trying,” came Sam’s reply, sleepy and a little quiet, teeth still chattering.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed and watched his brother huddle down in the threadbare blankets of the fine no-star establishment in which they found themselves, curling into the smallest space he could as if he, too, had trouble with all the new, extra height and length of him. He watched Sam shiver for all of ten seconds before he shook his head and laughed under his breath.

“Yeah, no. C’mon, Sam. Just- get over here.”

When Sam sat up and unfolded himself from his bed, he didn’t look directly at his brother but was very clearly trying to bite down on a smile like he’d just been handed a prize he always knew he was going to win but didn’t want to gloat about it. Dean rolled his eyes and leaned back, sliding into his bed and lifting the covers so Sam could slide in next to him. While he didn’t fit tucked up along Dean’s side quite like he used to, he still burrowed in there like it was - always had been - home. He snaked his arm across Dean’s waist, settling on a bare patch of skin where his shirt had crept up his stomach, and while Dean started for a moment at his touch - the bastard’s hands were cold - he relaxed as his brother did and peered down at the damp mop of hair where Sam’s head was nestled in his shoulder. Sam had gotten so big it was impossible for Dean to overlook the fact that he wasn’t a kid anymore. It gave Dean these anxious flutters in the pit of his stomach. He always took for granted how much Sam needed him and hadn’t realized how much he depended on that to give him a kind of purpose. He was struggling with Sam growing up because the more he watched him push away their father, the more he couldn’t help but wonder when Sam would start pushing him away, too. Recently it had occurred to him that if Sam ever decided he didn’t need Dean to be his big brother, then what else was he supposed to be? And yet, at seventeen and a preposterous six foot two, Sam was still wrapped around him like the lanky monkey he’d always been, seemingly undeterred by his growth spurts and aging thus far. Dean wasn’t a shameful person; he’d take what he was given for as long as he could. He hugged Sam to him tightly without thinking and let his eyes fall shut, savouring the closeness and the feel of his brother’s body snug against his own.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam’s voice was small against his side, mostly unchanged - when it wasn’t breaking - as if it still had to catch up with the rest of him.

“Hmm?” Dean hummed in reply, his eyes still closed, but he let his hand trace lines along Sam’s arm in a soothing motion like he always did when they laid together like this.

“It’s my birthday tomorrow.”

_Jesus, shit._

Dean could feel Sam’s smile, his dimpled cheek raising his face off of Dean’s chest a little.

“‘Course it is, kiddo. About time, too. You’ve been growin’ like a freakin’ weed.”

Sam laughed into Dean’s shirt, his breath warm, but he didn’t say anything more, he just gave Dean a gentle squeeze. Dean knew Sam could see straight through his nonchalance, knew Sam said what he said _because_ he knew Dean had no idea what day it was, much less the significance of tomorrow. Dean also knew Sam wasn’t mad, and he only said anything at all because if Dean found out afterwards that he’d missed Sam’s birthday, he’d be angry with himself and moody for days. He sometimes hated that Sam knew him so well, rendering all his tells and the tones of his voice completely decipherable so that hiding anything from his brother was a damn challenge and a half. Then again, Dean was a practical man. He knew Sam inside and out too, so there was little chance that their familiarity wasn’t always going to go both ways.

Dean listened as Sam’s breathing changed and he felt a little heavier at his side, finally asleep. _Eighteen, Jesus._ Dean couldn’t wrap his head around it. He could still - often without conscious effort - see Sam as the little kid who believed in the Easter Bunny for way too long (not that Dean had _anything_ to do with that) and who cried when he’d found out their dad wasn’t a travelling salesman. Dean had _always_ looked after his brother - the first and most important of all of John’s commandments to his older son - but now Sam was not only capable of taking care of himself, but he was also so much _smarter_ than Dean. Sure, he didn’t have all the same skills or instincts that Dean did, but he just knew so much and he could already speak Latin better than Dad. Dean beamed whenever he thought about it. But then, what would his life look like, he wondered, when Sam decided he was more than just Dean’s little brother? When he realized he didn’t need him anymore? He drifted to sleep trying to wish that future away, and thinking about what he was going to do in the morning to make Sam’s day a little special, hugging him tightly all the while.

It wasn’t like that night was particularly different from any other, but with what had happened… Dean remembered the eve of his little brother’s eighteenth birthday like it was the best day of his life. Really, it was the calm before the storm of the _rest_ of his life. Dean had woken before Sam, as had become usual - he was a growing teenage boy after all - and after _very_ carefully untangling himself from his giant baby brother who had sprawled half on top of him in his sleep, he snuck out to get Sam a present and some hot breakfast. He got directions to a local used bookstore from the over-eager cougar working the counter at the gas station, and then impatiently waited by the front door for the twenty-three minutes until it opened. Dean didn’t exactly do a ton of reading given that he mostly ignored high school in favour of the family business, but he did do some. He really enjoyed Vonnegut. He picked out a small, worn paperback copy of Slaughterhouse Five and paid for it with change he’d scavenged from the bottom of their duffle. He even went so far as to wrap it with yesterday’s newspaper that he’d pulled out of the recycling bin beside the cash register. Then, on the way back to the motel, he stopped to grab breakfast sandwiches and one of those overpriced frou-frou coffees that Sam liked so much, courtesy of a credit card belonging to a Mr. James Beaver. He’d been excited to get back and wake Sam up in the most obnoxious way he could imagine, but he never got the chance. By the time he'd returned, the door to their motel room was slightly ajar - their salt lines were broken, the smell of sulfur hung heavy in the air - and Sam was gone.


	2. Chapter One

\- THEN -

Sam’s head was swimming. He was vaguely aware of being conscious, but it was like being in that place between dreams and waking, only halfway anywhere. His head _hurt_ , fiercely, and he couldn’t remember why. He tried to think back, but there was just more... nothingness. He was cold, that much he knew, and he was lying on a flat, hard surface that did nothing to help, providing him neither comfort nor warmth. He tried to move - open his eyes, shift a leg - but he felt heavy and found he couldn’t do either of those things. The ebb and swell of the pain was loud and buzzing, in and out and like an echo, but as time stretched on - seconds or minutes, he couldn’t tell - the sound changed, low and rumbly, but structured. Slowly, it became clearer, though it was still much like listening to music through a wall, and he realized what he was hearing was someone speaking. It was Latin, an incantation.

“Dean…?” he breathed, or tried to. He wasn’t sure if the word made it out or if he’d just imagined it in his mind.

The chanting slowed, though, as if the speaker had maybe heard him and was listening for more. Maybe that was something. But the voice wasn’t Dean’s; it was lower, harsher, and it sent a chill across him as he heard it more clearly, adding layers to the pervasive cold. There was a bad feeling blossoming in his stomach and he did not like it one bit.

“Dean…” he tried again, desperate. It sounded quiet and broken even to his own ears, and as he struggled to push his eyes open with no success, he tried not to give in to the panic. The voice stopped for a moment to chuckle darkly and Sam was suddenly very frightened. He wanted to reach out, search blindly for his brother just to feel him, reassuring, even though a part of him already knew that Dean was not going to be in arm’s reach. His body still wouldn’t respond to him.

His stomach turned as he heard the tell tale drag of a blade against flesh and realized the incantation was finished, the spell complete. He heard the _pit-pit-pat_ of blood dripping, and the moment of silence that followed was terrifying. All he could do was try to breathe and wait it out. He didn’t have to wait long.

Two heartbeats, maybe three, later, and Sam started to feel warm. At first, he almost didn’t notice, it was so subtle. Then it started to intensify and, the next thing he knew, it was as though the very blood in his veins was on fire - boiling, sizzling, and burning hot. It got hotter still and the pain was searing, blinding white even behind his closed eyes. He wanted to get away, move, _anything_ , but he was still trapped, somehow immobile. He felt like his skin was getting tight, like his body was trying to split in two. He heard and felt the sharp _crack_ of bones popping and it was too much; his anguished cries rang out into the still unknown, the echo shrill and mixing with the low, eerie sound of the stranger’s satisfied laughter.

\- NOW -

If Dean was honest with himself - and he almost never was, not anymore - he’d be forced to acknowledge that the man he was two years, three months, and twenty-one days ago (again, not that he was counting) would struggle to recognize the man he had become. If he thought his father had driven him harshly before, that was eclipsed by the reality of how hard he’d been pushing himself ever since. John and Dean rarely ever worked together anymore; they came together only if it was absolutely necessary, which almost always meant a lead on Sam. Those came less and less frequently now; they hadn’t followed up on new leads on the youngest Winchester in four months.

Every night, steadily sipping pulls of whiskey to help him sleep, Dean went over his notes. He had a journal of his own now, filled with information and references from John’s, more thoughts and observations that he’d added himself, and a section at the back dedicated to his brother. Inside were two photographs, both frayed at the edges and with creases running through the images as a testament to how many times Dean had thumbed over them. One was Sam and Dean when Sam was maybe four. They were outside somewhere sunny - maybe Bobby’s - and Dean had his arms around Sam from behind, both of them smiling as if their lives were all the right kinds of normal. The other was the photo from Sam’s Junior year - somehow the only school picture they had, thanks to a lucky bit of timing - where he was too posed for Dean’s liking but it didn’t matter because his smile was perfect and genuine. The print had been the one from the order form so it had the photographer’s watermark across it, but Sam was so blindingly beautiful that Dean didn’t even notice. The pictures were tucked safely under the leather flap at the back of the journal, and the pages before them were littered with Sam-centric notes and scribbles, most written down in an obvious hurry - frantic, desperate.

Dean was adrift for a long time after Sam was taken, but he knew now that it was because he didn’t just lose his brother that day - he lost his father, too. No matter what he said, Dean knew John blamed him for Sam’s disappearance. Which was fine, really, because Dean blamed himself, too. But it wasn’t just that John was avoiding Dean; the feelings were decidedly mutual. When they discovered that the demon responsible for taking Sam was the same yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch who had killed their mother, John hadn’t been surprised. Worse than anything else was that it seemed like he’d been expecting something like this to happen their whole lives. Turned out, that night back in Lawrence, the yellow-eyed demon had been after Sam, and Mom just been in the way, and John had _known_ \- though, of course, he’d never deemed that a detail worth sharing. Dean had been angry at his father before for lots of things and on many occasions, but the moment he learned John had been withholding information, none of those compared. Dean had never taken a swing at his father before either, but he did that night. And John let him. John let Dean throw him against the wall and punch it out until his nose was good and broken and his son’s knuckles were wet with his blood. Then, when Dean’s rage was spent, leaving desperation and grief to fill all the cracks created in his brother’s absence, John held his older son as he cried harder than he ever had before.

The trust was fractured from then on. Dean knew their father wanted Sam back and would do anything to that end, but Dean could barely look at him. _He had known_. All their lives, he’d never said anything. Sam had somehow been a part of some plan involving the yellow-eyed demon the whole fucking time and John had _always known_. Supposedly that was all he knew, but how was Dean supposed to believe that now? He couldn’t. Bobby supposedly hadn’t known; John hadn’t shared any of this with him, either. Bobby was possibly the last person on the planet that Dean trusted, but since he was still in contact with John, unless it was necessary, Dean steered fairly clear of Singer’s Scrap Yard, too.

Two years, three months, twenty-one days. Dean spent them doing the only thing he really knew how to do: hunting. In between leads on the yellow-eyed demon, Dean pursued cases like he needed them to live. It was all he could do. Really, it could be argued that he did legitimately need the distraction - without a case to hold his attention, his reckless, self-deprecating attitude turned into reckless, self-destructive behaviour and those nights were never followed by good mornings. It was for the best, really, that Bobby hadn’t laid eyes on Dean in the better part of a year. Bobby surely would’ve been heartbroken to see the hardened person Dean had grown into. Bobby had _always_ wanted better for the boys, but Dean needed to be this if he was going to have to exist without his brother. And so, in two short years, Dean had built a reputation for himself that rivaled that of his father, which _he_ had built over the course of two decades. Dean was lethal, efficient, and reliable. He had little association with other hunters except to be given leads or asked for help, and he decided that in general he didn’t feel up to playing nice with others. Mostly, he was well adjusted. He had come to terms with the painful fact that Sam had been the source of light in his life and without him he moved about in a darkness he couldn’t escape, could only get used to. There were days, however, when that darkness consumed him. Christmas was difficult because of how it had always meant so much to Sam, and the kid’s birthday was definitely the worst. Occasionally though, there were days that for perhaps no other reason than being tired of working so hard to stay afloat, Dean would let go and drown a little instead.

It was one of those days. Dean had finished a hunt - cleared out a vamp’s nest outside Paris, Arkansas - and got himself a room at the first motel he came across with a vacancy sign. Standing in the doorway with his duffle over his shoulder and his key in his hand, he paused as he surveyed the room. Maybe it was misplaced residual adrenaline from the hunt, or maybe it was the eerily familiar decor of a room like every other he’d ever occupied in his life, but as his eyes made out the second bed in the light spilling in from behind him, he let out an unsteady breath. He could feel it settle into his bones, shaking him to his core and knocking things loose, resonating throughout his very tissues and making him feel weak and a little lightheaded. _Sam_. He swallowed thickly and moved as quickly as his body allowed him to close the door and toss his bag on the foot of his bed. He knew this feeling well and knew there was nothing he could do but succumb to it for now, ride it out and chase it away with the emergency bottle of Johnnie Walker that was in with his gear. By the time he dug it out and was twisting off the cap with fumbling hands, Dean’s breath was coming in short, his chest heaving with it, tight and heavy. He hated that this happened to him, but time made him resigned; like a crack in a dam that splintered and lead the entire infrastructure to crumble, he could do nothing but let it wash over him and leave him wrung out and weary in the end.

Dean took a long pull from the bottle. The heat that scorched his throat and spread out warmly down his limbs eased the tension across his ribs and let him take at least one easier breath. He knew it wouldn’t hold back what was coming, but it would slow it down, and he took a second swig before he started pulling at his blood-stained clothes, dropping them haphazardly on the floor on his way to the bathroom, bottle still in hand. He went right to the shower to turn the water on near-scalding and then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he leaned on the counter waiting for it to heat up. He had a couple scrapes on his face, dark with dried blood from where he’d taken a hit or two, and a bruise already starting around the outside of his left eye. His lip was split, too, but the rest of the garnet splatter across his neck, face, and into his hair belonged to the vamps whose heads he’d chopped off. His face was dark with stubble and exhaustion, and the amulet that perpetually hung from his neck was brighter by contrast. The sight of the tiny brass pendant against his bare chest made his breath quicken again and his eyes burned with the tears he wished he could avoid; to that end he hastily downed another gulp of whiskey and panted with the burn, setting the bottle in arm's reach before screwing his eyes shut against the inevitable and stepping under the hot spray.

None of the thoughts that were loose in Dean’s mind were pleasant as he let the water pummel his face and wash away the blood, making crimson swirls around his feet before they disappeared down the drain. The worst of them was always centered on the not knowing. Dean clung desperately to the hope that Sam was still alive, but, in a way, his refusal to acknowledge the other possibility meant he lived in constant agony over what Sam might be living through and how it was all Dean’s fault; every day that passed without Dean finding his brother and bringing him back home was another day he let him down. Sam had counted on Dean every day of his life - Dean lived and breathed _take care of your brother_ \- and now…? Dean choked on the sob that finally escaped, pressing the palms of his hands into the tile to hold himself up against the onslaught that threatened to tear him down.

Being a hunter meant an imagination with more than enough fodder to feed it, and for Dean that meant waking nightmares of the state his brother might be in, what the yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch might be doing to him. In his mind’s eye, Sam was tortured every way Dean knew of and he couldn’t stop seeing it, no matter how hard he clenched his eyes shut or how wide he forced them open, no matter how his tears clouded his vision. His beautiful baby brother was tied up, cut up, and broken, bloody and bruised, and every wound cut Dean doubly, like he had done it to him with his own hands. He cried unrestrained under the water, the thick, moisture-rich air warm and suffocating as he sucked it in, and eventually he was dizzy enough that his body just dropped, not even registering as his knees hit the hard surface underneath him.

Back in the beginning, when this had happened more often, he used to get angry. Things would get broken. That wrath was in his blood still, but at a simmer, hissing as the cool, resigned sadness washed over him instead. He reached for the bottle where it was perched on the edge of the tub and nursed it from where he was slumped over, still under the spray, and every breath he let out smelled like whiskey and sounded like Sam.

By the time Dean made it back to his duffle to root around for clean boxers, he was three-quarters of the way through his Walker, his eyes were red and puffy, and he swayed numbly where he stood. He crawled into Sam’s bed, the one farthest from the door, leaving his phone and journal on the bedside table and still clutching the mostly empty bottle in his hand. His lip quivered as he went to take another drink, and he would have been startled by the ringing of his cell in the otherwise silent room but for the way the whiskey made him good and slow. He let his eyes fall to the screen as it illuminated and read _Call from Bobby_. Dean turned away just as slowly, not interested in anything the old man might have to say right now, not when he was like this. He finished the last of the whiskey instead of wondering why Bobby was calling, and dropped the bottle over the edge of the bed. He sunk down into the blankets and hugged his pillow to him tightly, wishing it was his little brother instead.

The booze was a tried and true way to smother the images of his brother being tormented by the demon with yellow eyes, but it had another effect that Dean was all too accustomed to now. Where before he anguished over his brother’s imagined suffering, Dean would anguish now over what he was missing instead: soft touches, fingertips light and tracing on Sam’s skin, all golden and smooth and endless, the imagined taste of his mouth and the way Dean wanted to do more than just hug his brother to him in sleep. Dean had always known he loved his brother fiercely, responsibility and pride the seeds of a possessiveness and deep adoration, and in his brother’s absence they had blossomed into something else entirely. Dean was just as much wrecked by these thoughts as the others, waking from dreams where instead of lulling Sam to sleep drawing innocent circles onto his skin like he always used to, he was working him into a fever pitch with his lips and tongue and his hands in places they should never be. It was fucked up. Dean didn’t know if it was a twisted way of coping with Sam being taken from him, warping his love for his brother into something he couldn’t control, or if it had always been that way and Sam’s presence had just been enough for him to keep it in check. Either way, Dean knew in this state all he could do was let it wash over him, and as the whiskey floated around his veins and made him loose and easy, he felt the heat start to grow between his legs, tight and aching and demanding.

The alcohol fog that spread thick in his brain meant he was all too ready to let his world be narrowed to the feel of his hand on his already half-hard dick and all the thoughts of Sam that made his hips start to move in time with his pulls, all the _want_ that was now inextricably tied to his baby brother the fuel of a consuming fire Dean only knew how to control in one way. Dean stroked himself lazily, hands slow to respond through the whiskey-haze, and he coaxed himself full thinking of his brother’s long fingers on him instead - his fast, capable hands that could strip and reassemble a weapon in record time - putting their practiced dexterity to much better use. His eyes rolled back as he squeezed and shuddered at the image. His head pushed back into his pillow as he let out a small moan, his knees falling open and his other hand fisted in the sheets. Sam was between his legs, sitting back on his heels, his bright, innocent eyes moving between where his hand was wrecking his big brother and Dean’s blissed out face. Dean could just see it, the kid’s dimples deepening with his teasing grin, pleased to be responsible for the sounds coming out of his brother’s mouth.

“Sammy…” Dean breathed out as he increased the pressure and speed of his hand. In his mind’s eye he saw his not-so-little brother stretching out above him, still stroking him with those beautiful hands that Dean wished he could hold to his heart, or to his lips, to kiss and lick and suck. As his grip tightened, his hips bucked in earnest, the rhythm drunk and sloppy but still so good, and Dean was unfiltered, moaning and cursing as the waves grew, the tide of his pleasure hitting him harder and stronger. Sam took his breath away, his brilliant hazel eyes always able to see into Dean the way no one else could, really _seeing_ him, knowing him, making him feel alive. Dean held that sight in his heart and as he fucked into his hand, he saw that gaze close in on him, the distance between them vanishing as Sam’s pretty pink lips brushed his ear and Dean yearned to know what Sam’s voice would sound like all debauched and broken, telling him to come. With the next pull, Dean was spilling hot over his fist, his breath locked in his chest as his body seized and he shuddered through it, his brother’s name a gasp as he finally sucked in some air, his body going heavy and lax in the aftershocks. Panting, Dean groaned and the room spun a little. Consciousness started to slip away from him, exhaustion, alcohol, and his orgasm taking their toll.

“ _Sam_ …” As usual, his last thoughts before succumbing to sleep were of his brother.


	3. Chapter Two

\- THEN -

When Sam realized he was awake, he started suddenly, throwing himself upright. The last thing he remembered was excruciating pain. To his great relief, he was not experiencing that now. Aside from being pain free, Sam did not feel right. Everything was _off_. He felt a little like that one time they snuck into a building dressed in stolen firefighter’s gear - covered, weighed down, heavy - except that he could breathe and see easily without a helmet to impede him. His body felt strange, somehow giant, and as he took in his surroundings, he realized he was _seeing_ differently. Everything was in a kind of grey wash he assumed was due to darkness, except light was streaming in the large, stained glass windows that lined the sides and stretched tall over the giant wooden doors of what was grand entranceway. The glass and the shadows it cast were without colour. 

He frowned to himself, weirded out and trying not to read into it. He looked around and took in the foyer, the doors and hallways leading away and the impressive stone staircase that lead upstairs. The place was _huge_. It was stone and marble all over, smooth and glassy, colourless tapestries draped on the walls and statues and suits of armour along the walls. Unlit sconces and torches were scattered throughout but Sam could still see clearly far into the dark interior halls. His breath was getting shaky and the seeds of panic were blooming in his chest but something else was growing too; Sam felt like despite the clarity of his vision he was getting far away, suffocating - not in breath - but in _everything_. He couldn’t sit there any longer. He needed to _run_ , get away from this place, find his brother, and-

He stood up and the movement was jarring. It was loud, difficult, left him unsteady and swaying, and he felt disconnected from his own limbs even as they did as he willed them. Startled, he looked down and absolutely _froze_. He was _considerably_ higher up off the ground than he remembered being before, and more shocking, instead of the gun-calloused hands and dirty Chucks he was expecting, he saw- well, _paws_. It was the best word he could come up with except that made them seem gentle and they looked anything but. Large, covered in long, thick fur, and with considerable claws, Sam could not believe was he was seeing. He staggered back and the weight and sound of his massive body on the stone ground was only more unsettling. He brought his hands- dammit, _paws_ \- to his face and choked when what he felt was _not his face_. The panic that was sweeping through his body was ramping him up; he was having trouble breathing and other sensations were starting to flood his system, too. It was fight-or-flight like he’d never felt it before, and as the feelings rose and crested Sam felt his control slip away, dizzy as if drowning, pummeled by waves and sucked down so that he didn’t know up from down. When he cried out, it was immense, a deafening roar that echoed off the stony facade and shook him all the way to his bones.

\- NOW -

The first thing Dean noticed as he came to - apart from the obnoxious and painfully loud ring of his phone - was the unfortunate brightness of the room and the pounding ache in his head. He was flat on his stomach and as he shifted to reach for and silence the offending piece of technology, he groaned at the feeling of the spunk that was dried on his stomach, pulling at his skin and sticking him to the sheets. He brought the phone in front of his face and squinted at it just as it stopped ringing on its own. _4 missed calls from Bobby_. Dean groaned again, sitting up forcefully, ignoring the way his head protested. If he was calling this persistently it might mean a lead on Sam. 

“‘Bout time you answered your damn phone.” Bobby answered as expected, gruff and reprimanding.

“Yeah, well, I was busy. What d’ya have, Bobby?” Dean rubbed his pointer and thumb into his eyes as he listened to Bobby’s irritated sigh across the line.

“Honestly, I don’t know. I got a box here that arrived in the mail addressed to the both of us in your daddy’s handwriting with a note not to open it unless we’re together. Now I’ve been calling your old man and he’s been answering but he’s been squirrelly with me lately. I imagine he’s about to do something mighty foolish so you best haul ass, kid.”

_Shit_.

“Yeah, alright.” Dean checked his watch. “I’ll be there by nine.”

Fifteen minutes later - after a shower, a handful of Tylenol, and extra large coffee to go - Dean was pulling out of Paris and on the road to Sioux Falls.

\---

Dean shifted his weight self-consciously as he stood in front of the front door to Bobby’s house. As much as he felt justified in distancing himself as he had since Sam was taken, no one made him feel shitty about it quite like Bobby. He never even had to say anything - and generally he didn’t, knowing better than to try and wrangle Dean into anything for all his stubbornness - but Dean could always read it on his face, in the way he’d look at him the odd time Dean would swing by, and he could hear it in the way he’d say that Dean needed to take better care of himself. And, really, Bobby was the closest thing to family he had outside of John, so, especially after everything, if he let himself think about it - which he adamantly did not - he missed Bobby. A lot. He could hear the man’s footsteps closing in on the other side of the door.

“Good to see you all in one piece, kid.” Dean could tell Bobby’s eyes were taking in the swelling and explosion of colour on the side of his face that had erupted overnight, the lacerations on his brow and cheekbone, his puffy lip, and the dark wells under his eyes. Dean swallowed hard, feeling a little sheepish under the fatherly gaze. This was why he stayed away. Out there, on his own, Dean could be all the tough he needed to be to get by. But here, with Bobby, in this house? All he saw was the life he led before: _home, family, Sam_. It made him feel too young; it made it harder not to feel so broken.

“C’mere, ya idjit.” Bobby took the step forward to close the distance between them and pulled Dean into a tight hug. This didn’t help, but then again, maybe it did. Dean relaxed.

“It’s good to see you too, Bobby.” 

Dean followed Bobby into the house and into his study where the package in question was waiting on his desk. Bobby stood to the side so Dean could examine the parcel, pouring a couple fingers of whiskey for each of them and watching Dean all the while.

“It’s definitely Dad’s writing,” he started, his hands running over the edges. 

“Yeah, and this was taped to it.” Bobby passed him a piece of paper that had obviously been folded to fit an envelope at one time. Dean read it quickly.

_Bobby -_  
_Best wait for Dean to be with you before you open this. He should be there to see it. You’re going to need this for old Yellow Eyes, and God only knows what else. Somehow Daniel got his hands on it. Don’t ask me, he wouldn’t tell. There’s more to come, hopefully some solid intel._  
_Dean -_  
_I’m sorry. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you. Take care of Sammy._

“Bobby?” Dean’s breathing was hard and his hand shook as it held the note. “Why’s he saying this stuff? What- what the hell?” 

Bobby’s eyes were sad and kind where they fixed on Dean’s. 

“I dunno, kid.” He paused and Dean didn’t need him to say it because they were both thinking it; it sounded like a goodbye. Dean’s chest started to ache. 

“Better open it.” Bobby prompted, handing him a small knife that’d been on his desk. 

Dean’s hands were still shaking as he took the blade and used it cut the heavy duty tape sealing the box. He let it drop back to the desk with a soft clatter as he folded open the cardboard flaps and started tossing out packing peanuts. His fingers found fabric and he pulled it out of the way, quickly dumping the rest of the styrofoam filler and revealing the box’s prize.

“What th-”

“I don’t believe it.” 

Dean’s eyes snapped up to Bobby’s as they talked over each other. The older hunter wore a look somewhere between complete disbelief and awe. 

“Bobby- you know what this is?” Dean implored.

“Well, I know what it looks like alright. It looks like the Colt.”

Dean looked back at the contents. Inside the box on a bed of dark cloth was an old 19th century revolver and a handful of bullets. The weapon was exquisitely designed, covered in various etchings from filigree and latin on the barrel to a pentagram carved into the wood of the handle. Even the bullets had inscriptions. 

“Wait- _the_ Colt? I thought that was a myth?” He couldn’t help but sputter as he looked from the gun to Bobby and back. Bobby scratched at his beard. 

Dean had heard his father tell the legend before that back in 1835, when Halley's Comet was overhead, same night those men died at the Alamo, Samuel Colt made a gun. They said it was a special gun and he made it for a hunter. The story went that he made thirteen bullets and this hunter used the gun a half dozen times before he disappeared, and the gun disappeared, too. Rumour was this gun could kill anything. 

“Bobby, could this be real? Could we really kill that bastard with this?”

Bobby looked thoughtful.

“Your father’s no fool, Dean. If he’s sent us this…” He paused and looked hard at the objects in question. “There aren’t many bullets left. I can only imagine John used one to test the theories. This has gotta be the real deal.” 

Dean’s thoughts were going a mile a minute. Bobby reached out and picked up the gun, turning it over in his hands. He whistled low, impressed. 

“Yeah, but Bobby- what did he mean intel? And that other crap? Call the asshole, would you?” Dean ran a hand through his hair and knocked back all the contents of the tumbler Bobby had poured him. He started to pace.

“Okay, kid. Hold on.” Bobby replaced the Colt and dug his phone out of his pocket. He kept his eyes on him as Dean circled the small study anxiously. “It’s ringing… And voicema- John, it’s Bobby. Dean’s here, we’ve got the Colt. Whatever you’re fixin’ to do… Just, call us, John.”  
Dean stilled and watched Bobby flip his phone close and tuck it away. Bobby raised his eyebrows at Dean. He was letting Dean call the next play. Dean didn’t have to think on it long.

“Bobby, pack your stuff. I’m going to get the last hit off the GPS on his phone and we’re gonna hit the road. Whatever the dumb son of a bitch is about to do - we can at least try to back him up.”

It didn’t take Dean long to get the information he needed. By the time he was sweet-talking his way through it with the woman at the phone company - something about an elderly father who’s pretty confused and might be lost - Bobby had a fully-stocked duffle tossed over his shoulder and was standing at the ready, watching Dean where he was hunched over the desk with a pen and paper to take down the coordinates. 

“Thanks a million, sweetheart. My ma’ll finally be able to sleep once we track him down. Yes, ma’am.” Dean laid on the drawl pretty thick as he scrawled down the numbers, the phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder. He quickly shoved it in his pocket, grabbed the piece of paper and held it up for Bobby to see. “Let’s plug these puppies in.”

“No need.” Bobby’s sighed. Dean’s eyebrows furrowed and he gave a questioning look.

“Dean, those are in Sioux Falls. He’s already _here_.”

A moment passed while it sunk in. 

“ _Shit_. What the fuck is in Sioux Falls? C’mon Bobby, let’s go.” Dean grabbed his bag off the couch and started for the door, Bobby right behind him. Just as he grabbed the handle, Bobby’s phone rang out. Dean turned to see the older hunter scramble to get it out of his pocket.

“Bobby, leave it for Chrissakes! We got-”

“Dean, it’s _John_.” Bobby growled as he flipped open the phone. He punched the button to put it on speaker and he and Dean leaned in with the device between them.

“John? John! For the love of God, tell us where you are!”

Bobby and Dean listened intently. There were definitely sounds coming through, shuffling as though someone was moving around, but it might’ve been muffled, like the phone was in a pocket. Dean exchanged a panicked glance at Bobby, who just shrugged his shoulders and nodded at him to keep listening. Another moment passed, more shuffling. Then there was the sound of match being struck, and John’s muffled voice came through the phone. He was speaking Latin.

“Bobby, is that-”

“Shh! It’s some kind of summoning spell. I don’t recognize it.” Bobby snapped, hushed.

Dean shut up, strained to listen. John finished the incantation and the silence that followed felt heavy. Then there was a low, easy laugh.

“ _You conjuring me, John? I’m surprised. I took you for a lot of things but suicidally reckless wasn’t one of them_.”

Dean’s eyes went wide and he sucked in a breath as he looked to Bobby. He just closed his eyes and shook his head. They heard a gun cock.

“ _I could shoot you_.” John spoke calmly.

“ _Johnny boy, I’m insulted. You and I both know that’s not the real Colt. But you’re not here to shoot me, are you?_ ”

“ _It was worth a shot_.” John replied, still nonplussed. “ _I want to make a deal_.”

“Dad, no…” Dean breathed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“ _It’s very unseemly, making deals with devils. Didn’t you learn anything from your sweet Mary? Demon deals: always so much trouble, in the end_.”

“ _I want my kid back_.” John continued, unwavering. Yellow-eyes chuckled darkly.

“ _Why, John, you're a sentimentalist. If only your boys knew how much their daddy loved them_.”

“ _Will you give him back? Yes or no?_ ”

“ _Well, John, it’s a little more complicated than that. You know the truth, right? About Sammy?_ ”

There was a short pause.

“ _Yeah. I’ve known for a while_.”

“ _Then you know he’s out of reach now, even for me. But I’m curious, John. What was your play? You really thought you could trade me that fake gun for your tainted son?_ ”

Another moment of silence passed. Dean could barely hear the muffled voices over the hard thudding of the blood rushing in his ears.

“ _Don’t fret, John. You can still sweeten the pot. There’s something else I want as much as that gun. Maybe more. And since I know we’ve got an audience, here’s the deal. I get to take your soul to Hell, and whoever’s listening gets information on your precious Sammy_.” 

More silence filled the line. Dean knew his father was turning over the stakes in his head.

“John, don’t…” Bobby muttered. Dean looked at him pleadingly, knowing that whatever was going to happen, they could do nothing to stop it.

“ _Deal_.” 

Dean didn’t know his fractured heart could break any more than it already had until he heard his father say that word. 

“No!” He couldn’t help but cry out. Bobby’s grabbed his arm and gripped it tightly.

“ _I do think I’ve just made the deal of a century. You must have a lot of misplaced faith in your backup, John. Sammy’s pretty far gone. He still lives, though, so I guess there’s that. Hell, I’ll even tell you where he is, since it’s not like you can do anything about it. I took him to the Devil’s House, where he waits and readies to fulfil his destiny. And I gotta tell ya, Johnny, it’s downright_ beastly. _Happy hunting, folks!_ ”

His maniacal laughter filled the phone. It finally stopped, only for a moment of eerie silence before a hard thud, followed by more silence. 

All Dean could hear was his own heart, the pound of it competing with the panting of his breath. As Bobby closed the phone, Dean staggered back against the door.

“Dean…” Bobby started, moving toward him with glossy eyes.

Dean was reeling. He couldn’t- did that just- _but his father_ \- He felt suddenly sick to his stomach and it was getting harder to breathe.

“Dean? Stay with me. Dean!”

It was the last thing he heard before he blacked out.


	4. Chapter Three

\- THEN -

Sam woke slowly, trying futilely to hold on to the vivid and familiar images of his dreams, the ones that were harder and harder to recall with every passing day. In dreams he saw flashes of the life he knew he once led, the person he knew he used to be, and the brother he missed more desperately than he could ever say. With every waking moment, those thoughts became more difficult to grasp. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since the man with the yellow eyes had changed him, but in moments of clarity he understood that it had been some time, and he thought that it had been easier to remember - easier to fight it - before. In these rare instances, usually just after waking, he presumed that, like a pet that notes its family’s absence but has no concept of time, such principles were difficult for him in his current form.

As this, this- _monster_ , he thought bitterly, just as the words started to slip away.

The longer he was awake, the more difficult it would get to even think the way he used to, but sometimes the monster was so dominant he couldn’t remember enough to even notice. He would wake and fight consciousness, the creature mind, as long as he could, focusing on Dean because his brother was the only thing that gave him hope. He told himself every day that Dean was coming, that he would always come, and he would figure out a way to fix him. Then the day would wear on, and Dean would be less of a concrete person, less someone he could picture at will, and more of a feeling, somewhat distant. Sam’s life would feel increasingly simple as everything melted away, suppressed, buried under height and bulk and _fur_ and teeth and claws and things that weren’t Sam’s except that somehow they were.

Sam let the instincts take over, mentally exhausted from fighting them and recognizing the angry hollow sensation in his stomach that meant it was time to give in to a hunt. He never looked forward to searching for food; handing over the reins meant it was harder to take them back, but it was a necessary evil if he was going to eat. His body seemed to unfurl itself from the tightly curled up bundle in which it usually slept, stretching out long, jaw hinging open on a yawn that sounded like a low rumble. By the time he had padded heavily along the stone corridors and out into the courtyard, Sam was only vaguely present. He saw through animal eyes, the world sharper even at a greater distance, but duller and washed in greys, and he breathed with an animal nose, a sense startlingly developed that allowed him to identify and know so much more with just a breath. When he was more cognisant, Sam would never call this place anything like home - he resented its very existence and the godforsaken spell that kept him bound to it - but now, withdrawn as he was, it was familiar and Sam was possessive; it was _his_ \- his territory. And right now, with the sounds of his empty stomach suppressing him all the more, it was his hunting ground.

He stalked away from the castle, nostrils flaring and eyes darting about quickly, on a mission. On good days, days when he felt in control, he would occasionally venture out just to be out. Mostly, he would wander at night, his vision seemingly unaffected by the darkness, so that he could look up at the stars and remember; he would see the stars and they would help ground him, and he would hold onto the thought that he was under the same sky, the same celestial lights that he and Dean used to gaze at together. On bad days, Sam tried to keep the creature inside, not trusting himself to be able to override if necessary, and not wanting another… accident. Not long after he found himself trapped there - in that body, in that _place_ \- he had wandered freely where he was permitted and hadn’t realized the danger until he came across another person. He hadn’t realized yet exactly _how big_ he really was, or how swift and powerful the monster’s instincts were. Sam hadn’t had time to even try and stop himself before he’d- well, he didn’t like to think about it. Of course, when he could think, he wound up thinking about it a lot. At the time, he’d watched it all happen as if he was living some first-person video game, except the controls were broken and his character wouldn’t respond, no matter how much he yelled and screamed, pounded his fists, kicked, or cried out. Of course, it had been unusual to come across someone else. Sam realized that long after, when it had failed to happen again. Every once in awhile he’d catch a whiff of someone on the wind, and he would dig in his heels and retreat inside, fight tooth and nail against the creature’s impulses until he couldn’t any longer and hunger drove him out.

Now, he let the creature lead, let his mind rest, and went in search of food.

\- NOW -

The next three months went by in a sluggish blur.

Dean and Bobby collected John’s body when it was found the morning after in the basement of Sioux Falls General Hospital. They gave him a proper hunter’s funeral.

Dean gave in to Bobby’s insistence that he stay with him, but it was far from a good time. The information Yellow-Eyes had given them was vague and his conversation with John just raised more questions that didn’t have easy answers. Worse, it was clear that John had known more than he ever cared to share with Bobby or Dean, leaving them all the more disadvantaged. When Dean finally made it through John’s journal - recovered with his truck - and came up with nothing he didn’t already know about his brother or the demon, he downed the better part of a bottle of Blue Label and took a crowbar to the Impala. Bobby watched from the window all the while, his heart absolutely breaking. He knew the only thing that might ease Dean’s pain was a breakthrough on Sam, but it was slow going. He stuck to it though, hardly sleeping, devoting all of his energy to research and care of the elder Winchester. When Dean had finished denting the hell out of his car, smashing all of her windows and swinging until he could barely lift his arms, he crumpled in a heap at her side and cried for the first time since his father died. When he was finally still, Bobby had collected him and, listless and empty, he allowed himself to be tucked in to bed.

After that, Dean spent most of his time fixing up the car, smoothing her out and fitting her with new glass. Bobby sent him on a couple of milk runs - never more than a few towns over - and passed everything else on to other hunters. Otherwise, their noses were in the books, looking up every possible clue on a ‘Devil’s House’ which remained elusive, and seeking still more information on the demon and what he - and Sam - had to do with anything. More and more it felt like they were trying to get a picture from a puzzle where they lacked most of the pieces, but Bobby was steadfast in his hunting, determined to find something of merit to give Dean hope.

It was almost three months to day after John’s death when he finally found it. They were both sitting in his study, Dean on the couch with a large tome open across his lap and a glass of whiskey in one hand, and Bobby at his desk, surrounded by open books and his laptop. When he read the translation, he could feel his pulse quicken.

“Dean!” he practically barked. The kid’s head snapped up where he was sitting, eyebrows raised.

“I think- I think I know where Sam is.” He said it quietly, almost disbelieving. Dean was on his feet and moving toward Bobby in the next heartbeat, the text in his lap discarded carelessly and dropping to the floor with a loud bang. He stood behind him and leaned over him where he sat, craning to see the screen.

“So the bastard deliberately misled us. The place isn’t known as the ‘Devil’s House.’ It goes by Blencathra. It’s an Old Cumbrian dialect. One guess at its translation.” Dean groaned.

“Devil’s House.”

“You got it. There’s a castle by that name. It’s in _England_ , kid. On some mountain called the same thing and... “ Bobby took in the information in front of him, “ _Jesus_ , there’s history there, all right. Apparently the place has been haunted since- well, forever. It’s unknown how old it is exactly, but it’s been around indefinitely. Rumour goes it was built once upon a time by Devil-worshippers and to this day the nearby villagers avoid it, claiming those who’ve trespassed have never returned. There are reports going back centuries that document sightings of a ‘great, hulking figure, too giant to be human,’ ‘a beast-like creature’ on the castle grounds. That, and… _shit_. ‘A man with yellow eyes.’”

He looked up at Dean, who seemed focused in a way Bobby hadn’t seen in the time since John.

“I’ll be damned.” Dean shook his head and clapped a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “You really found it.”

“Looks like you’ve got some travelin’ to do,” Bobby went on, ruefully. “You start packing, I’ll look into flights.”

Dean nodded and started to move away, then paused.

“Wait, you’re not coming with me?”

Bobby contemplated a moment.

“I dunno, Dean. There’s a lot of research that still needs doing. A lot of history on this place I need to dig into, its connection with Yellow-Eyes, your brother, and now the Devil, of all things. Don’t know if I’ll be able to get any of that done or be much help to you from a village in the English countryside.”

Dean nodded, resigned.

“I guess you’re right.” Dean sighed and, as he turned away, Bobby thought he might’ve heard him mumble something like “ _fucking hate flying_ ” under his breath. He tried not to smirk as he typed ‘flights to England’ into Google.

Bobby hadn’t gotten very far in his search, and Dean was absentmindedly sifting through his duffle, wondering how exactly he was supposed to bring an arsenal onto the plane with him, when a startlingly bright flash of lightning outside illuminated the study. The loud crack that followed an instant later was almost deafening and the windows rattled with wind and the pummel of rain that started seemingly out of nowhere.

“The hell…?” Dean started, his brows knit together in concern, looking out the window into the darkness then back at Bobby. The old hunter had stood quickly and, as a reflex, grabbed the shotgun from under his desk in one hand and a pistol in the other. Dean knew from experience one was loaded with rock salt and the other with silver. The lights inside flickered as the force of the winds seemed to shake the whole damn house and Dean grabbed his own gun from where it was tucked in the back of his jeans and a sigil-marked blade from inside his bag before backing up to stand closer to Bobby’s desk. Both hunters stood at the ready.

There was a second bright flash of lighting and when it cleared, it revealed a man standing in Bobby’s kitchen. He had dark, slightly mussed hair and wore a trench coat open over a suit, looking dishevelled with a blue tie loose and backwards on his neck. He looked unassuming for only a second while he stood there, and his eyes poured over the hunters who could only blink at him. The storm outside was still raging loudly. Then the man took a step towards them, and, as he moved, all the bulbs in the fixtures above him shattered, plunging the kitchen into darkness but for the shower of sparks and glass that rained down about his unflinching figure.

Dean and Bobby both opened fire without hesitation, sending an onslaught of bullets and salt at their uninvited guest. It didn’t slow him at all; the shots didn’t even seem to register. Dean tightened his grip on the blade in his hand and braced himself for what might be coming next. When the man was close enough, Dean didn’t waste a second; he plunged the blade right into his chest. The man paused then and looked down at the handle where it stuck out. His brows moved and the corner of his mouth quirked in something that might have been amusement, and Dean tried not to let the sudden wave of panic that swept over him take root. Behind him Bobby moved, and the next thing they knew the man reached out and grabbed the end of Bobby’s weapon, bending it back, rendering it completely useless. For a painfully long moment, he fixed them both with an intense gaze, the wind outside finally dying down and the house feeling still again as he removed the knife and let it clatter to the floor.

“We need to talk, Dean,” he said calmly, his voice deep and rough. Dean swallowed hard, tried to stand his ground. He turned and looked at Bobby, who seemed to be no better off.

“Who are you?” Dean demanded as forcefully as he could muster.

“Castiel,” he replied simply.

“Castiel. Yeah, okay. I mean _what_ are you?” Dean countered.

“I’m an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean baulked. Bobby was silent behind him.

“Get the hell out of here. There’s no such thing.” Dean leveled him with a look that was filling quickly with anger more than plain disbelief.

“This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.” His tone was even and calm. It made Dean bristle even more.

“No fai- you’re damn right I don’t.” He spat back, then he stopped himself. He wasn’t about to explain himself to this- this _thing_.

Castiel closed his eyes a moment and when he opened them next they were glowing, the wind shook the windows and the lights flicked again; when they came back on, the shadow of a great span of wings stretched out behind him, visible just long enough for Dean and Bobby to see it unmistakeably. Dean stared, wide-eyed, but still unconvinced.

“Your brother always had enough for the both of you, right? That’s how you always rationalized it. Or used to,” he continued.

Dean froze. He tried not to shake as he took in Castiel’s words and let their implications wash over him. It was true. Sam had always been more the praying kind. But Dean had never said that aloud - not to anyone, not even Sam. Dean didn’t know how, but if this Castiel knew these kinds of things about him, then his stomach tightened to think what else he might know when it came to thoughts of his brother. He felt Bobby’s hand tentatively settle on his arm, ready to hold him back lest he throw himself at this so-called angel and get himself killed as a result.

“Don’t- don’t you talk to me about Sam,” Dean managed to breathe out, terse and clipped and every bit a threat. The man before him nodded gently as if he was taking note. Dean was seething. Bobby’s voice broke the tension.

“So, an angel. Aren’t they supposed to be, uh, great warriors?” His voice was tentative, like he had no idea what might be an appropriate ice breaker for a conversation with an _angel_.

“Yeah,” Dean continued, muttering almost to himself. “What is this get up? More like holy tax accountant.”

“This? This is a vessel. Angels cannot walk the earth in their true forms. We need to inhabit a human vessel to interact on this plane.” Castiel explained as though he was teaching a child to count using apples and oranges. It brushed Dean the wrong way. Again.

“You’re possessing some poor bastard?!” He snapped angrily.

“He’s a devout man. He actually prayed for this. I cannot possess a vessel without permission. We are not demons, Dean.”

“Well, I’m not buying what you’re selling. Who are you, really?”

Castiel frowned, almost confused.

“I told you,” he stated again.

“Okay,” Bobby injected now, ready to move the conversation forward. “But if you’re an angel, what the hell are you doing here? What do you want with Dean?”

“Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”

The silence that filled the room then was so heavy Dean wasn’t sure he could’ve moved through it. It stretched on while he tried to digest the so-called angel’s latest words. He couldn’t help that he stuttered when he spoke next. He was lucky to have found his voice at all.

“Work. For me. What kind of work? Why- why me?”

“The first seal on Lucifer’s cage has been broken. You have to stop the rest. And if you can’t stop them, you must stop him.”

If Dean thought the we-have-work-for-you moment was a punch to the gut, he was wrong. He felt like the rug was pulled right out from under him then. Seals? _Lucifer?_ He staggered a little and felt Bobby’s hand tighten on his arm as he leaned back to sit on the desk, his head spinning.

“Dean,” Bobby said firmly, trying to ground him. Castiel looked mildly concerned but made no move.

“Are you alright?” He inquired.

“I- I’m-” Dean looked up at him, bewildered. “You’ve got some s’plaining to do.”

Castiel only looked puzzled.

“What the hell are you on about? What _seals?_ And I’m not sure I even wanna _ask_ about the other thing,” Dean pushed.

“Oh.” Castiel blinked. He looked puzzled again, just for a moment. “I thought you were hunters? Lucifer is locked in a cage in Hell. It is protected by 600 seals - they are tasks, trials, spells - and only 66 need be broken to unlock the cage and set Lucifer free.”

He looked back and forth between the two shocked hunters as if that somehow explained everything.

“Why would anyone want to set Lucifer free? Why is that even an option?” Dean sputtered.

“The foretold Apocalypse.”

Of course. _Obviously_. Dean threw his hands up in the air and looked back at Bobby, who was looking deadly serious. Dean didn’t find that comforting.

“It is detailed at least somewhat in your book of Revelations, I believe,” Cas continued, frowning.

It had been a while since Dean took a stroll through the Bible. He tried to remember and then threw his arms up again.

“Right. Sure. Okay. Still - _what does any of this have to do with me?_ I’m just a regular guy!”

Castiel’s frown deepened.

“Dean, you are anything but. You are the Michael Sword.” He said it plainly, as if Dean was supposed to know what that was and all it implied. He didn’t. All he could do was baulk again.

“You- you’re terrible at this, you know. You’re going to have to spell this out for me,” Dean said, sighing. Bobby was still oddly quiet.

“Dean, angels require vessels to walk the earth, but not just any vessel will do. The Apocalypse would have my brothers Michael and Lucifer do battle but they can only fight against one another in their truest vessels. Michael must be armed with his Sword if he is to defeat Lucifer. Which is to say, you. Now, if you can stop the seals from being broken, then you avoid that entirely. But things are already in motion. The first seal was broken when your father-”

“What about my father?!” Dean cut him off sharply.

“Your father - he was instrumental in this undertaking. ‘The first seal shall be broken when the righteous man sheds blood in Hell.’ He was manipulated by the demon that won his soul. We believe it was Azazel’s - the yellow-eyed demon, as you know him - intention all along. He is trying to free Lucifer and instigate the end of your world.”

There was more tense silence. Dean was slipping. He was having a hard enough time keeping up and that was _before_ Castiel started talking about his _father_. In _Hell_. Bobby decided to step in.

“So, you’re saying the demon was gunning for John’s soul all along?”

“It’s possible. Likely, even,” Castiel answered. “The angels have fought to rescue him from the pit, but it is very difficult to steal a soul from Hell. We weren’t able to get to him in time.”

The angel shifted where he stood as if in some small acknowledgement of his own failure.

“The seal has been broken and others will follow quickly. Lucifer’s agents will work ruthlessly to ensure his freedom if they can. The angels will do their part to fight them. But you must help us. Dean, you’re the only one who can stop all of this.”

Dean was frozen for a moment. This guy just wasn’t stopping with the punches. He’d be angry but it was getting to be too much, too ridiculous. Everything - every cursed thing in his life, the goddamn yellow-eyed demon, his mother, his brother, now his father, and him, too, - all part of some grand- No. He wouldn’t even say it in his head, just to himself. He started to laugh. Bobby looked at him quickly, anxious. None of this was funny but Dean was done. With all of it. Castiel looked taken aback.

“Dean,” he said seriously. “I don’t understand. Have I said something humorous? I have not intended to make a jest.”

“This- this is ridiculous. The fucking Apocalypse? Really? I- No. Besides, you said y’all need permission, right? Well, no angel’s wearing me to the prom. If all I gotta do is say no, then thanks, ‘tips, but you can piss off.”

“Dean…” Bobby said warily.

“Dean,” Castiel pressed at the same time. “It’s more than that. You _must_ be the one to stop the seals. You are the only one who can stop Sam.”

Dean stilled instantly. The look he fixed Castiel with then was absolutely murderous.

“What about Sam?” He all but growled.

For a moment the man before him looked exasperated, irritated that he had to keep explaining.

“‘As it is Heaven, so too it must be on Earth’. Michael and Lucifer are brothers. As you are Michael’s vessel, your brother is Lucifer’s.”

The air went out of Dean then. He couldn’t laugh now, only slump back against the desk again and drag his hand down his face. He shared a pained look with Bobby as more pieces of their mysterious puzzle were cast before them. Everything was starting to become more clear and Dean was less than happy about the picture taking shape. He stood stiffly and faced Castiel with a firm look.

“If you really are some angel of the Lord, you’re going to answer some questions for me. Is Sam even okay? How am I supposed to know the Devil isn’t already walking around in my brother’s meatsuit?”

“While all the seals are not yet broken, Satan remains locked in his cage. If Lucifer walked the Earth,” Cas held Dean’s gaze. “You’d know.”

“Sure,” Dean chuffed. “And my brother?”

Castiel stood a moment and his gaze went elsewhere. He seemed contemplative. When he looked back to Dean, he met his eyes hesitantly, shifting his weight again.

“I… cannot see your brother. I can sense that he lives but… somehow he is hidden from me.” Castiel spoke quietly.

“Of course. Of course!” Dean yelled. He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Freakin’ useless is what you are. Some angel, alright.”

Dean took a deep breath and started to pace. Bobby was thinking hard, still standing behind the desk where he’d been the entire time.

“Listen, you feathered freak,” Dean started. “I still don’t really know what you want from me, or what you expect me to do about the friggin’ Devil, and I don’t even want to _think_ about what you might be insinuating you want me to do about Sam, but here’s the bottom line: the only thing I care about right now - the only thing that I’ve cared about for the last two years, six months, and twenty-two days - is finding my brother.”

Dean stopped pacing in front of his duffle - he grabbed the Colt and its bullets off the desk, setting them inside along with his own gun, airport security be damned - zipping it and swinging it over his shoulder while Bobby and Castiel watched him in silence.

“I don’t know you, I don’t trust you, and you can take your Apocalypse crap and shove it up your stuffy ass for all I care. All I know is that I’ve got the best lead on Sam since he went missing so I _will_ be getting on a plane to England so I can find this fucking Blencathra place and my kid brother. You don’t like it? That’s too damn bad. Good luck trying to stop me.”

The look Dean gave Castiel was downright defiant, but it was also confident, assured, and sharp. He had a plan, and that plan was going to lead him to Sam, and his whole world was nothing more than that. Let the Apocalypse come; none of it would matter if Sam was still gone. Castiel looked thoughtful a moment, and Dean watched to see if the angel was going to try and argue. Instead, he looked back at Dean and his mouth quirked up in what might’ve been approval.

“Okay then,” he stated plainly. Dean barely had enough time to smile smugly when Cas reached up and tapped two fingers to the centre of his forehead. Then the world fell away from him and everything went black.


	5. Chapter Four

Something was nudging Dean’s head. He didn’t notice the first time, still more or less unconscious. Then the next nudge was a little more forceful, and the sounds following it were those of a wet, open-mouth chomping right by his ear. Like nails on a blackboard it woke him up suddenly, sending an uncomfortable shiver down his spine, and when he opened his eyes he had to squint for the brightness. He flailed his arms up and in the direction of the unpleasant noise and his right elbow knocked into something. The something _bleated_.

“Ah! What the…?!” Dean flinched away quickly, bringing his left hand up to block the sun and revealing the nonplussed black face of a shaggy, blinking sheep. It stared at him with little recognition or concern, its jaw working its way through a mouthful of grass. Dean stared back at it for a moment, his eyes adjusting. Then he remembered- he was at Bobby’s, he’d had a lead - _a lead!_ \- on Sam, and then there was a friggin’ _angel_ \- what the hell happened? Where _was_ he?

He sat all the way up and looked around. He was in the middle of a large, grassy field peppered with sheep that didn’t seem bothered by his presence. His duffle bag was still caught on his shoulder and he had a wicked kink in his back from however long he’d been lying on it so awkwardly. In the distance was a dirt road, lined by a simple, country fence, and what might be a farmhouse. In the opposite direction, the field stretched on over countless hills which lead to forest, and low, thickly treed mountains rose against the horizon. Something about them was unsettling, though Dean couldn’t quite pin down what. It was a beautiful day, the sky was cloudless and blue, and the height of the blinding sun told him it was sometime late in the afternoon. He checked his watch and the numbers there in no way made sense compared sun’s position. He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know the time, and he could only guess at the date, since he couldn’t be sure how long he'd been out. It looked like his only hope for getting his bearings would be to seek out the nearest village and pray that the locals spoke English.

Groaning with the effort, he stood up and stretched, kicking his legs out and reaching for the sky, his duffle sliding all the way back onto his shoulder and settling behind him. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open with the intention of calling Bobby. He sighed, but wasn’t honestly surprised to see the words _no signal_ next to the little _x_ where there should've been bars. That would have been too easy. He turned it off to conserve battery and tucked it away. He took a deep breath and adjusted the straps of his bag to sit more comfortably on his back, patted the head of the sheep that woke him, and started for the road.

As he walked, he took in the sights. It really was picturesque, the landscape in general, but he couldn’t shake the pervasive feeling of uneasiness that seemed to have settled in under his skin. He felt a little twitchy, and he made sure his gun was loaded and tucked in the back of his jeans just in case. He was doubly concerned because this feeling didn’t seem to be exclusively as a result of his winding up here out of nowhere. There was… something _else_ hanging in the air. He passed by the farmhouse and contemplated it a moment before continuing. It looked quaint, to the point that he wondered if it even had electricity. He could see, further down the road, a few more scattered roofs. They looked to be increasing in frequency, so he decided to move along and take his chances - maybe there was an actual village up ahead.

Luckily, he was right. While at no point had he passed a sign saying so, he could tell he was approaching what _had_ to pass as an actual town or village. The farmhouses were closer together, sheep and cows grazing by the roadside oblivious to his existence. He saw up ahead the welcome sight of another human being in the field adjacent to a little house. He was facing away from Dean, pushing a hoe into the earth with a heavy, boot-clad foot, and as Dean got closer a woman exited the house with a bucket of gardening tools on one arm. She saw Dean approaching and froze, blinking. Dean grinned widely.

“Hey, how ya doin’?” He winked at her with that, and at the sound of his voice the man spun around sharply, surprised. They were both past middle-aged, greying around the edges, and dressed plainly in denim worn and dirty from their day-to-day work. They gaped at Dean a little as he kept walking by, and their lack of actual response left Dean unsure as to whether or not they understood English. Of course, he wasn’t stupid. The more he remembered how his conversation with Castiel had gone down, the more he had a sneaking suspicion where he was but he wasn’t ready to commit to that notion without proof. If his inclination was correct, then angels sure did have more mojo than the average... beings... Dean was used to dealing with.

As he entered the town proper - if it could be called that - Dean caught weary glances from a few other townsfolk. One went so far as to nod at him when he smiled, but other than that no one said anything and he was starting to feel a little surprised at the lack of friendliness or welcome. Clearly, he was a stranger. He thought that alone would have drawn a little more curiosity. The road opened up into what could be considered a kind of town square, lined by what might pass as a convenience store or small grocer, and a church. Well, more of a chapel, really; it was as tiny and plain as everything else there, though it did have what appeared to be a small home adjoining it. In hand-painted calligraphy beside the wooden double doors, a sign read ‘Church of the Morning Star.’ Possibly this was the largest town for a while then, and all the nearby countryfolk worshipped here. As Dean paused to take it in, the door of the little rectory opened and a young-looking man in a black cassock and white collar stepped out. When his eyes fell on Dean, he paused, surprised.

“Well, hello there, stranger,” he only blinked once before greeting Dean properly with a smile, and coming forward to extend him a hand.

“Hello, Father.” Dean grasped his arm easily, and the man gave him a firm, friendly shake.

“Fr. Eric Barnes, at your service. You can call me Eric, though.”

“Dean,” he offered in return. “Dean Winchester.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dean Winchester.” He smiled very kindly. He spoke with a clear voice and soft English accent that Dean imagined meant he was both well educated and not a local. If any of the villagers ever decided to speak to him, he guessed their accents might be a shade more difficult to understand, being this far removed from what would pass as a city. “What brings you this way? We don’t get many travellers here in Bowscale.”

Dean could see that the priest was assessing him fully, noting the loosely packed duffle bag on his back and the dust on his boots, his lack of a car, and the fact that he was who-the-hell-knew how far from civilization, yet he'd turned up in middle of town like this. He laughed a little and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“Actually, Father, it’s… kind of a long - complicated - well, long _and_ complicated story.”

The look Fr. Eric gave him was one that said he was not surprised. He continued to observe Dean expectantly.

“Honestly, I’m, uh, a bit lost. My phone - it doesn’t get reception and…” Dean wasn’t sure what else to say. His initial thought was confirmed now, he _was_ in England. He could only hope that meant that whatever that damn angel had done had put him at least _close_ to where he needed to be. He had business here, but he had barely anything on his person: his usual weapons cache; a wallet with a few _American_ credit cards, so who knew if they’d work (not that anywhere in this place looked like it took plastic); a couple American twenties and some change; and a cell phone that was, at this point, pretty much useless.

“Why don’t you come inside, Dean. You look like you could use some tea. I’ll put on the kettle, and we’ll see if we can’t get you sorted out.” As soon as the priest mentioned tea, it was like a switch was flipped; suddenly Dean realized just how hungry he was. He was all too happy to accept the Father’s invitation, and told him so in as many words.

“Please, make yourself at home.” Fr. Eric gestured to his sitting room, which, despite being small, was cozy and obviously where he received guests. There was a small table under a sun-filled window, and a small pot of miniature red roses rested on it, soaking up the late afternoon light. Dean sat in one of the worn but comfortable armchairs beside it and noted how pleasantly fragrant the flowers were. He shrugged off his duffle, careful to check that it was still properly closed, and set it down at his feet, tucking it out of the way.

There was a wood stove beside the door and a humble fire burned behind the glass. Fr. Eric reemerged from what Dean assumed was the kitchen with a cast-iron kettle that he placed on the stovetop using a carefully folded cloth to hold the handle. Dean hadn’t realized that he was a little chilled, but coming in from outside he was newly comfortable in the quiet warmth of the priest’s home. He soon disappeared again, and Dean listened as he rummaged in cupboards for cups and saucers, returning a moment later bearing two sets of unmarked china along with milk, sugar, and a small assortment of plain cookies. Dean’s stomach grumbled audibly as Fr. Eric set the tray down between them. Dean flushed a little and muttered an apology but the priest just chuckled.

“Please, don’t. Help yourself, Dean.”

“Thank you, Father. Really.” Dean gave him an earnest look before diving right into the cookies. He noticed the crumbs that fell from his lips, scattering over the neat tablecloth - he was too hungry to eat any way less than ravenously - and he couldn't help but hear Sam’s voice chiding him. He could still see the way the kid would roll his eyes. It sent a familiar pang of sadness through him, but he grinned despite himself, collecting the little flecks off the table into his palm and brushing them onto the plate under his still empty tea cup.

When he looked back up at Father Eric, the priest was watching him with a quiet smile. Dean was wary, but the man gave him a good vibe; he felt genuine, and certainly he did not look threatening. Dean had to guess he was in his thirties, knowing how long it took for Catholic priests to study, but the man was meticulously clean-shaven, and had a baby face besides. He didn’t look much older than Dean, really, but he spoke and carried himself with the calm, practiced demeanor that Dean often observed in clergymen. The corner of his mouth quirked up a little further when Dean cleaned up the table. Despite the bare and unassuming decor of the little cottage, it was warm, welcoming, and clean. The Father was impeccably dressed, not a speck out of place on his crisp black vestments, and Dean was aware that by comparison he maybe looked a little rough around the edges.

Dean ate the biscuits in silence, keeping a hand under his chin to minimize the mess, and, though it was quiet, it was not awkward. The kettle whistled just as he finished the last cookie, and his host stood to collect it, pouring the hot water into the teapot he’d brought in on his tray before replacing it, empty, on the stove. When he sat again he held Dean’s gaze.

“So,” he started. “You’re American, you’ve got little on your person that I can see, and you’re a good… four hour’s walk from the closest town, Penrith, which is east of here, though something tells me that’s not where you’ve come from. So.”

He raised his eyebrows and smiled again, putting the ball in Dean’s court. Dean thought about his current situation. He didn’t exactly have a lot of resources, and he wasn’t about to have access to much else, but there were things he needed to know if he was going to accomplish anything. The question was, how much could he tell the priest? Certainly not everything. But Dean was experienced at fudging his way through things, and the closer to the truth, the easier the lie, both to live and believe.

“Um, well, as I said, Father, it’s a bit of a story. The short version is…” Dean took a deep breath. He wanted to win the man’s sympathy, but it wasn’t difficult to appear sad or uncomfortable. Dean had never gotten particularly comfortable or adequately helpful when trying to talk about Sam, especially to anyone other than Bobby. “I’m looking for my kid brother.”

“Your brother,” Fr. Eric repeated plainly, encouraging Dean to continue.

“Yeah, he, uh- well, he’s missing. He got this idea in his head that after high school he’d take a year and travel Europe, you know? Except he, uh… hasn’t been in touch. I know something’s wrong. We’re close. He was good about letting me know where he was. Last I heard, he was heading into the countryside - these parts, I’m sure of it - to hike mountains, check out castles, that kind of thing. I know- I mean, I know that cell reception is non-existent here, but… he was supposed to check in.”

Dean watched Fr. Eric closely as he spoke, letting his sincere concern for his brother be evident in his voice. If his eyes glistened a little, too, then that was just because Dean was a fantastic actor. Obviously. What Dean witnessed on the Father’s face was a myriad of expressions; among them, sadness, pity, and understanding, but also concern - maybe even fear. He could see that the man was working something out in his mind. He appeared to be weighing the words on his tongue, biting the inside of his lip a little. He took a deep breath and reached for the tea, pouring them each a cup.

“Are you a superstitious man, Dean?” he spoke finally, setting the pot back down, his expression revealing little. Dean blinked.

“Superstitious? Not really, I don’t think. How do you mean, Father?” Dean pressed him, nodding when the man held a sugar cube over Dean’s cup as a question. The _plop_ it made as it hit the watery surface felt loud against the pregnant pause in their conversation. He nodded again to milk as well, and the moment stretched out. Dean tried not to fidget.

“Dean,” Fr. Eric started slowly, “I’m not one for superstition, either. That being said, I’ve only been here a while. The last priest of this parish, he…” he took a deep breath. “He actually disappeared. A little over two years ago now, I guess. I was fresh out of the seminary and had told my superiors I was looking for a challenge. I had expected an inner city parish and instead I wound up here. I thought it was a kind of joke, really. I hadn’t realized at the time but…”

The man honestly looked a little uncomfortable, and he paused to sip his tea. Whatever was the priest had yet to share had Dean buzzing with excited anticipation. He _had_ to be close. There was definitely _something_ going on here.

“Dean, the parish is lovely here, but, they are simple people, farmers mostly. Most of them are families that have been here for centuries, maybe more. They don’t leave, and people don’t normally come here, either. I’m the first outsider to preside over the parish here. But the way things are with the Church these days, there are less and less of us. Priests, I mean.” He sighed again. “You mentioned castles?”

Dean nodded.

“Yeah, the kid is kind of a romantic, you know?” Dean chuckled. It wasn’t untrue. Father Eric smiled sadly.

“There is indeed a castle closeby here. Blencathra, it’s called.”

Dean’s heart leapt in his chest. He fought the impulse to butt in and ask the million questions that came instantly to mind, as Fr. Eric was obviously not yet finished.

“It’s quite secluded. About half a day's hike up the mountain, if the villagers are to be believed. They say… they say it’s haunted. That it always has been. My parishioners don’t like to talk about it, but some of the children like to tell the stories. People have always gone missing in those woods. They say that Father Williams - my predecessor - went up there. No one speculates aloud as to why, but they say… they say that, on the night, they heard his cries. From up on the mountain. He hasn’t been seen since.”

Dean absorbed every word being said, and noted the Father’s hesitant attitude. Dean could tell he wasn’t sure _what_ he believed, but he was definitely a bit scared. Dean admired that; a little fear was smart. After all, chances were he had good reason to be afraid. What he was saying seemed to jive with what little information Dean had gotten from Bobby before he got dumped here.

“Dean, if your brother did get lost up on the mountain…” Fr. Eric spoke gently, coaxing Dean to draw his implied conclusion and also entertain a solemn possibility.

“I hear what you’re saying, Father. But I gotta go up there. It’s what I came all this way for. I’ve got no other choice.”

Fr. Eric’s eyes went wide.

“I really must discourage you, Dean. I hate to put much stock in such stories but… there’s something about this place, about my parishioners, even. I don’t know if you feel it, but… I don’t know. I am a man of steadfast faith. Some days, I’m certain it’s the only reason I have stayed here this long. You’re a young man with lots of life ahead of you. I… I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you out there.”

Dean held the priest’s gaze a moment, judging. It was not a threat. He was genuinely concerned. Dean knew there was no way he could confide in the man that not 24 hours previous an _Angel of the Lord_ had told him his brother still lived, so he would just have to play up the stubborn big brother. Which, really, was not an act at all, especially now.

“Father, I appreciate your concern. But my brother… I’ve looked after him my whole life. Never should’ve let him leave. Whatever happened - whatever is happening - to him, that’s on me. I gotta try. It- he’s… he's my whole life.” His final words were hardly above a whisper. He had stopped looking at Fr. Eric as he spoke, and he was almost surprised by the open honesty that resulted when he gave his mouth such free reign. It was all true, of course, but Dean wasn’t used to saying it out loud. He could practically feel the pitying eyes of the priest across from him. He cleared his throat and reached for his duffle, starting to stand up.

“Father, you’ve been very kind, and I'm grateful, but I’ve really gotta be on my way. Any chance you know of a phone nearby that I could use to make a quick international call?” Dean was standing, adjusting the straps of his bag as he downed the rest of his tea. Fr. Eric stood as well, looking a little flustered.

“Dean, now wait a minute. It’s going to get dark soon, and it’s a long hike. Please, I see that I will not be able to dissuade you, but be reasonable at least. Stay the night here, get a good night’s rest. I have another room in the rectory I can set up for you, and you can have a good meal before you set off in the morning.”

Dean shifted hesitantly under the priest’s gentle eyes. He weighed his options. He was itching to get to Sam, but he wouldn’t do his brother any good if he got lost in the woods after dark. He sighed and nodded.

“Thank you, Father. I- I’ll do that, then.”

“Good.” Fr. Eric collected the tray off the table. “Just let me put this away, and I’ll take you to the post office. It’s got the only landline in the village. You can call whomever you need to there.”

Dean was anxious about having a frank conversation with Bobby in front of Fr. Eric, but he should’ve known he didn’t need to worry; Fr. Eric had brought him to the corner store which contained the post office and the only working phone, introduced him to Stuart who ran the place, and then kindly asked the man to join him outside to give Dean privacy. He punched Bobby’s familiar digits into the old phone and curled the cord around his fingers while he waited.

“ _Singer Auto Parts?_ ”

“Bobby!”

“ _Dean! Thank God you’re alright, kid. Been worried sick about you. Don’t trust that damn angel as far as I could throw ‘im_.” Bobby’s voice was quiet and distant across the line but it was still one of the most reassuring things Dean had ever heard

“Yeah, I’m fine, Bobby. I’m in fucking _England_.”

“ _I know. Our haloed friend told me he agreed you should go after Sam. Said he sent you to the closest place he could to the castle. Apparently the place is warded to high Heaven and it’s like an angel-free Bermuda Triangle, or something. Castiel thinks it’s very possible Sam is in there, which is why he can’t see him. Supposedly_.”

“Huh. Well, I wandered into a village - it’s called Bowscale. There’s not much around, Bobby. I mean, the only phone is a public one in their sorry excuse for a convenience store. I met a priest though, he’s been helpful. Confirmed what you said about the castle. His name’s Eric Barnes. Parish is uh, what was it- Church of the Morning Star. Apparently the priest before him went missing in the woods surrounding the castle over two years ago. Seems a bit coincidental don’t you think? Around the same as when Sam went missing.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Bobby hummed. “ _Definitely suspicious. I’ll look into your priest friend. Morning Star, you said? Hm. Interesting_.”

“Interesting?” Dean repeated.

“ _Yeah. In scripture, Jesus is called the Morning Star more than once. But it’s also a variant translation for_ Lucifer.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Dean dragged his hand down over his face, rubbing at his eyes. “Bobby, this is messed up. How did we get wrapped up in this? With the freakin’ Devil?!”

“ _I dunno, Dean. I don’t like it either. I’ll do my best to see what all this has to do with your brother. I’ll look into the church, too. We got lots to go on. Now I just need to figure out what it all means_.” The heavy sigh that followed told Dean it was hardly as easy as it sounded. The amount of research to done - Bobby could be reading ‘til the Rapture. “ _What’s your play, kid?_ ”

“Bobby, I’m gonna find that damn castle. I’m bringing everything I’ve got. I’ll figure it out. Sam has to be there. He _has_ to be. And I’m gonna bring him home if it’s the last thing I do.”

Bobby didn’t say anything for a minute. Dean knew him well enough that he was trying decide if it was worth it to try and talk Dean down, or if there was anything he could use as reason enough for Dean to wait.

“ _Yeah, alright. Dean. Be careful, okay? If_ -” He paused, hesitating. “ _You’re no good to Sam dead, you hear me?_ ”

“I hear you, Bobby. Good luck,” Dean offered.

“ _You too, kid_.”


	6. Chapter Five

Dean was restless. His friendly host had set him up in modest accommodations which were small but decidedly nicer than pretty much any of the motels Dean had stayed in recently. The priest had then bid him goodnight despite it being much too early for Dean to sleep. To his credit, he did try; he had taken off his boots and all his outer layers, stretching out on the bed in his jeans and black t-shirt, and tried without success to resist the usual compulsion to pour over the worn photos of his brother in his journal. He let his eyes wash over the beloved images and his thumb fiddled with one folded corner. After his initial feelings of hope started to get bogged down with sadness and longing, he fished in his bag and sighed when he realized he hadn’t had a chance to acquire a new bottle of whiskey. Sleep was not going to come to him like this.

He debated getting out of bed for all of three seconds before sitting up and swiftly tucking away the heartache-inducing photographs. He put his boots and his layers back on and decided, even if he couldn’t find any alcohol in this poor provincial town, he could at least walk off some of his restless energy. He slipped quietly through the door to his room and closed it gingerly, avoiding making any noise. He turned out of the hallway and into the little sitting area on the way out only to halt suddenly, Fr. Eric sitting in pajamas and a matching housecoat in the chair closest to the small fire, floor lamp on and pulled beside him, a book open in his hands, a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose, and his amused eyes on Dean.

“Father, hi,” Dean sputtered out, surprised.

“Well, I can see you’re not exactly running off to storm the castle. Can’t sleep, Dean?”

Dean just worried his bottom lip between his teeth and nodded, resigned.

“I hate to ask, Father, but, uh…” Dean hesitated just briefly. “Anywhere in this town a man can find himself a drink?” 

Fr. Eric just laughed a little.

“We may be out in the middle of relative nowhere without some of the more usual accoutrements, but if there’s one thing people have always done, it’s drink. Pretty much all they do after a long day working the earth, really. There is, actually, a small local public house, just a few minutes walk to the right when you head out. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

He fixed Dean with a knowing, soft look. Dean just breathed out a little easier, silently thanking whomever might be listening. He nodded gratefully at Fr. Eric on his way out and wandered away from the church, down the road in search of the night’s salvation.

Dean almost walked right by the place. It was as simple and nondescript as most of the white, simple cottage-like buildings that made up the majority of those in the little village. He caught himself just before passing it by thanks to the propped open door, ajar just enough that the telltale sounds of people talking and drinking spilled out onto the road along with a thin stream of warm, golden light. He wasn’t surprised when the din quieted upon his entrance and he found many eyes upon him. The Father hadn’t been kidding - the small space was fairly packed, groups of people gathered around tables and along the small bar. The majority were men, aged anywhere from a little grey to a lot, all worn and weary looking from days of hard physical labour. There were a few tables surrounded by women in the same category, too, but at the corner of the small, slightly less populated bar, was a group of - _Jesus_ , triplets. They had to be. Blonde, reasonably pretty for the middle of nowhere, and, while they looked like they lived the same kind of life as everyone else in the place, they were the youngest in the room (next to Dean, of course), maybe early thirties. Dean reveled in the obvious way they were taking in the sight of him as much as the rest of the patrons - if not _more_ \- and he went so far as to wink at the trio as he sauntered in and settled on a stool in front of the barman who eyed him warily from behind the counter. Fr. Eric had very generously traded him his US dollars for English pounds, and he took some of the notes out of his pocket now and set them on the bartop, grinning despite the fact that his foreignness was clearly not winning him any friendliness. 

“Whiskey, please,” he requested, looking the barkeep right in the eyes. The man, maybe sixty, was a bit wrinkled and wore an unkempt salt and pepper stubble. He regarded Dean hesitantly another moment before he smiled tightly.

“Comin’ right up.” He took Dean’s money and turned around to secure it in the till and grab a bottle. The buzz of the tavern started up again as people apparently decided to more or less disregard Dean’s presence. He shook his head as he tapped his fingers on the counter and waited for his drink. The same sense of uneasiness he’d felt in the field that afternoon was evident here, maybe even more so. Dean thought on how Fr. Eric had said that he felt it, too. These people just did not take to strangers, then. It was weird either way, but Dean wasn’t going to dwell on it; he had no illusions about his reasons for being in the pub. While on other cases he might’ve canvassed the patrons for information, he could sense he wouldn't get far with this group. Besides, he was there principally for himself; ever since Sam had gone missing, Dean relied a little more heavily on a drink or two at night than he cared to admit. 

When the bartender slid the plain tumbler his way, he gave him a nod and a genuine - if not mildly obnoxious - smile before picking it up and downing it in one go. He loved the burn, the way it made his nerves settle. While he was wound up in a way quite different than he usually was, he nevertheless appreciated the calm that the whiskey let him feel.

“Another, if you’d be so kind,” Dean requested after the burn eased, placing another few notes on the counter. The man’s eyes went wide for a moment then he shrugged and complied, silently refilling Dean’s glass. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see how the three identical women had edged closer together since he sat down and were not-so-subtly watching him while they spoke in hushed voices. Dean smirked as he sipped his second drink. He was used to the way women looked at him, had always looked at him - hell, sometimes the way men looked at him, too - and in a place like this? Dean could only imagine how boring it would be to always only see the same familiar faces as every day of your life, many of them old and disinteresting besides. Whatever was going on here with these people, Dean thought, at least he seemed like bait enough to get a human-like reaction out of _someone_ apart from the only other non-local. He took another swallow from his glass before setting it down and contemplating its amber contents. Maybe… maybe he should see if those sisters might share something useful. It was hardly wise to waste the only possible source of new information. When he picked up the glass next, he cleared his throat and caught the eyes of his onlookers, tipping it to them in a salute before taking another drink, deliberately running his tongue over his whiskey-wet lips. 

“Ladies,” he rumbled, voice a bit lower and rougher from the drink, using the extra edge to his advantage and wagging his eyebrows at them. “Dean Winchester.” He leaned across the bar leading with his hand and they shared a look with each other, smiling, before, one by one, they each closed the gap and shook it. 

“Claudette,” the last one holding his hand said, gesturing to herself. “Paulette, and Laurette.” She gestured to her sisters as she said it, smiling wryly and Dean was glad he’d swallowed the whiskey in his mouth because he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing or making a face. Some parents were downright cruel. Either way, he smiled and bit his bottom lip a little. This was not his first rodeo, and he was going to play it up for all he was worth. He sat back in his seat, tilting his head so he was looking at them through his lashes. They settled on their stools so that they were facing him.

“So Dean,” Claudette started. “What brings you out this way?” 

“Well, I’m writing a paper, actually. For my thesis. On local histories of rural castles and the villages surrounding them.” The lie flowed off his tongue easily, a variation of a story he’d used countless times. The girls’- _women’s_ \- eyes opened in surprise and they shared another look with each other, approving. 

“Is that so?” Paulette practically purred, leaning against her sister to get a little closer as she spoke.

“It is,” Dean confirmed. “I thought I could maybe get some stories or local lore from folk, if I could find anyone that was interested in me- uh, talking, with me, that is.” Dean pretended to look a little flustered under their attention, then gave them a shy look. 

“Oh,” Laurette grinned and then signalled the bartender for a round. “I don’t think you need to look any further.”

A few hours and a lot of whiskey later, Dean was undeniably a bit buzzed and the sisters - well, they were hanging off him enough to suggest that they were properly drunk. Dean learned a bit about the area - apart from their haunted castle, this countryside was known (known where, Dean wasn’t sure) for its roses, which reportedly grew wild all over the place, throughout the woods and in many of the townspeople’s gardens; beyond that, there wasn't much to the quiet village, and it had remained virtually unchanged for pretty much ever. The increasingly chatty sisters told him how they’d managed to escape for a short while, making their attempts at city life before they'd had to return to care for ailing parents. They eagerly shared the story of how the old priest had spoken with a newfound zeal at the mass he gave before he disappeared, ramped up about something and begging the parishioners to ‘ready themselves’ - though, for what, the girls couldn’t say, having stopped attending church when they’d left for the city and only hearing of the events secondhand from others in town - and how he'd then vanished into the woods, never to be heard from again. Dean sighed at the tale; it was nothing earth-shattering, nor worthy of the late hour or the amount of liquor Dean had consumed.

The place was all but cleared out, Dean and the ladies tucked into the corner at the end of the bar. The man in charge had already cleaned up and stacked the empty chairs on top of the tables as his other customers left. He had disappeared into the back where Dean guessed he might even live, but the door was still open a touch so he would hear the bell ring when they finally left. Dean got the distinct impression that the sisters had closed the joint before. 

“Where are you staying tonight, Dean?” Laurette inquired as if she could read his mind, sense his thoughts about turning in, all the while playing with the silver ring on Dean’s right hand. Claudette was sitting on the stool next to him, close enough that her feet were caught up with his where they perched on the rungs of his own seat. Paulette was on his other side, leaning heavily into his shoulder. At their sister’s question they both perked up, eyes on Dean with renewed interest. 

Dean looked from one sister to the next and could read plain as day the offer that was on the table. He’d be lying if he said twins weren’t on his bucket list, much less triplets, but suddenly, looking at them, all he could see was the eyes that weren’t hazel like his brother’s, the lips that didn’t make dimples like Sam’s when they smiled, and the long blonde hair that couldn’t hold a candle to his brother’s dusky strands. Whatever delusions he had been entertaining involving the three women dissipated in a blink and all the bravado and laid-on charm melted out of him. 

“Ladies, it is kind of you to take an interest. A man should be so lucky to have your attention but, uh… I’m staying at the rectory, actually, and I’ve got places to be in the morning. I should really say goodnight.”

At Dean's dismissal, the sisters protested with a raised chorus of disappointed sounds. Dean stood up, trying to make good on his words; he swayed a little, the whiskey, which had settled, now coming to life in his veins with the movement. The girls stood too, Claudette and Paulette grabbing each of his arms while Laurette stepped right into his space, slipping her fingers into the front of his belt loops at his hips and tugging him to her.

“Dean,” she started, sing-song and pouting prettily. “Please.”

Dean looked down at her and swallowed hard. He started to shake his head, and he opened his mouth to say goodbye again, but she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. The kiss skipped chaste altogether as her tongue slipped in and brushed against his own, and Dean’s stomach flipped unpleasantly. He found his hands and his voice quickly, making a protestant noise in his throat and putting his open palms on her shoulders, pushing her away, gentle but firm.

“Goodnight, ladies,” he said, curt now, and extricated himself from their grasps. He didn’t turn back to look at them as he walked out of the establishment and into the crisp night air, his head spinning a little and his chest tight. He walked deliberately in the direction of the church, slowing after several long strides to rub a hand through his hair and sigh. He paused for a moment and oscillated where he stood, still swaying a little.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, which swirled out visibly in front of him. He hugged his jacket to him tightly. He was in a worse place than when he’d set out; he’d only needed a few fingers as a night cap, and instead he drank a good portion of a bottle. Then he'd gotten himself all twisted up thinking about those sisters, and instead ended up stuck on thoughts of his brother, like always. He was ready for this to be over - all the mixed-up feelings… the way he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t live the way he wanted to, not without Sam. He was tired of being shredded on the inside, always hurting - anywhere from dull to raging, depending on the moment - desperate to know Sam was safe and then _keep_ him that way, keep him close. Overwhelmed, panting, he looked up at the stars and let them ground him; Sam could see those same stars. They were under the same sky, and they were closer than they’d been in the last two years, six months, and twenty-two days; Dean could _feel_ it. He didn’t know what to expect in the castle, but Sam was going to be there and that was all that fucking mattered to Dean. Not God and angels, not the Apocalypse - hell, there wasn’t even room for _triplets_ in Dean’s world right now.

When he returned his attention back to Earth and found himself at the door to the rectory, he had the presence of mind to move slow and stealthy as he entered, closing the door behind him gently and tiptoeing to his room. He eased himself onto the bed, still careful not to make noise, toeing off his boots and shedding his jacket and button-down. He wiggled out of his jeans, too, leaving them in a heap on the floor next to his shoes. After a halfhearted attempt at arranging them, still leaned over the side of the bed, he blindly rooted in his bag for his journal so he could fall asleep with Sam’s face the last thing he’d see. His hands closed around the spine of a book and he pulled the object out, surprised to find that instead of his journal it was a bundle wrapped in newspaper dated May 1st, 2001. Dean sometimes forgot that he still carried Sam’s eighteenth birthday present with him, that initially he’d kept it because he had been determined to give it to Sam when he found him. It was more than a little late, but Dean finally felt like maybe, just _maybe_ , he might be able to give it to his brother after all. He thumbed fondly over the surface, faded ink and worn-soft paper concealing the bright red cover with the yellow skull and crossbones on the front that Dean could still picture perfectly. He sighed and replaced the gift in his duffle bag with care. He laid back down on the bed, pulling the covers over his chest and looking up at the ceiling through heavy-lidded eyes.

“I’m comin’ for ya, Sammy. ‘M gonna see you again real soon.” He mumbled his hope-filled promises into the empty room as his eyes finally closed and he promptly fell asleep.

\---

Dean was less hungover than he’d anticipated. However, that might have something to do with the fact that he’d slept _much_ later than he’d anticipated, too. When he lifted his watch above his face and read 11:13, he groaned loudly and rolled his eyes at himself. He wasted no more time getting out of bed, dressing, double checking the stock in his bag, and making his way to the bathroom. He didn’t hear any other movement in the rectory while he was up, and he wondered if maybe Fr. Eric was out. He honestly didn’t know how to thank the man, but he’d find a way - after he got his brother back. He tidied his room as best he could, tried to leave it looking like he’d never been there in the first place, and stepped out into the sitting room. Just as he crossed the threshold into the room, the rectory door opened and Fr. Eric stepped in, still wearing his robes. _Ah, yes. Sunday_.

“Dean,” he said, a little startled. “I didn’t expect to find you still here after the service.” 

Dean rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, a little sheepish.

“I, uh, might’ve stayed out a bit late last night…”

“Indeed, I didn’t hear you come in. But this is good. I left a note for you to help yourself, but since I’m here, please, let me make something for you to eat. You can’t go up the mountain on an empty stomach.”

Dean wanted to protest in the interest of time, but the priest was right. His stomach was void of anything but the remnants of last night's whiskey, and more than a little unsettled for it; food would help him feel much better. He sighed, smiling.

“Father, I owe you one. Thank you, really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t run into you.” He set his duffle bag on the floor by the door and Eric held his gaze where he stood still at the threshold.

“Dean, the steps of a good man are directed by the Lord. He delights in their way. Surely he has brought you to me that I might help you on your journey.”

He turned away and went into the kitchen then. Dean thought on the priest's words a moment. While he was not sure what he believed, if anything, sometimes he couldn’t deny that it was reassuring to see the strong, quiet faith of others. It made him think about Sam.

“Can I help you at least?” Dean asked, peeking his head in where his host was working away. Eric laughed at him.

“Of course not. It’s nothing, Dean. Listen, I went digging for some maps last night while you were out. I left them for you, there, on the table. Go ahead and take a look. They’re quite old, but I believe they include topography of the mountain and a general location for the castle grounds. It’s not much but…” He paused, giving a solemn look to Dean who was still standing in the doorway. “I want to believe you have a chance, that you can find your brother.” With that, Eric turned back to his task and Dean heard the telltale flare of gas being lit in the stove and the clanging of pans as he headed into the living room.

Dean found the maps next to him on the small table and opened them up as instructed, locating the village and starting to gauge his distance, calculate the most direct path. He was still pouring over them when Eric returned with two plates, each bearing fresh sausage and mashed potatoes. Dean was grinning as he set them down.

Dean devoured what he was given happily and Eric was pleased to see it. He insisted on cleaning up after them, too, despite Dean’s attempt to assist him.

“You really must go now if you want to get there before sundown,” Eric pressed.

“I can’t thank you enough, Father,” Dean insisted, sincere. “Listen, uh… if things don’t go my way? I’ve got… I got family back home. You’d be the last…” Dean swallowed thickly, and reached into his pocket for a folded piece of paper. “This is his name and number. If you could just… You know, if-”

“Dean,” he interrupted him kindly, taking the paper from him. “Go now. You and your brother will be in my prayers. I’ll be here when you come back down and waiting to meet him, okay?”

Dean didn’t know what to say after that. It was all sounding too real, too close. It was the only thing he wanted, all he could think about, every cell in his body functioning together to bring him to this point, his only purpose - to rescue Sam. And this was it. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so instead he smiled, nodded, and took his leave. 

Dean stopped by the little general store before ditching Bowscale all together, making sure he had a few bottles of water and other provisions, which included the largest bag of peanut M&M’s they had for sale. He hiked along the dirt road leading away from town for only a mile or so before he saw the first marker, a break in the fence row that was filled by a worn path. In the distance was the tree line, and the hilly field rose gently higher as it spread out to meet the base of the mountain. Much like the day before, the sun was high and warm, the sky clear and bright, but the air was cool when it moved and Dean was thankful for his jacket. Carrying on down the path that would take him into the wooded foothills, he readjusted his bag and started humming Traveling Riverside Blues.


	7. Chapter Six

Dean was popping M&M’s in his mouth by the time he stepped into the tree line and the path he was walking had disappeared, leaving him only his map and its landmarks to keep him true. He hadn’t gotten far into the forest before he started to feel the wind pick up despite the cover, and a chill went through him. He stopped briefly to tuck away the rest of his candies and grab Sam’s old brown hoodie from his bag. It was the only sweater he kept on him most of the time, and while it stopped smelling like his brother long ago, it was always comforting and he was all the more thankful for it now. He pulled it over his head and threw his leather jacket back on before continuing forward. A little warmer than before, he glanced up and his brow furrowed. It was a lot darker than he remembered it being only moments ago, under the open sky, and when he looked up through the leaves he could see dark, threatening clouds overhead. He felt increasingly uneasy. When he was walking in the field, he’d sworn the sky was clear as far as the eye could see; this foreboding weather seemed to have manifested out of nowhere. He didn’t need a lifetime of hunting the supernatural to recognize that as a bad sign. He pulled his jacket around him a little more closely and settled his bag on his shoulder before continuing west, the ground under his feet a little rocky and increasing steadily in altitude. 

A few hours later it had only gotten darker and Dean had gotten colder. He had fished out his flashlight to rove over the ground ahead, mostly to make sure he didn’t break an ankle tripping over the gnarled roots that seemed to be everywhere and determined to cause him injury. He also stopped to check his map often, though he was confident he was on the right path if only for the horrible feeling that was steadily growing in his stomach. The unease had blossomed into outright anxiety, leaving him jittery and unusually spooked by sounds around him in the darkness of the woods. He was more than unsettled and didn’t enjoy it one bit. Dean was not used to being so easily rattled, but there was _something_ about this place. Somehow he felt as if he had departed room the entire known world - which, given his vocation, was pretty damn broad when it came to the dark and spooky - and had stepped ever closer to one completely new and strange. He was out of his element. He honestly would have felt better sneaking into a dilapidated old barn that he knew housed any number and kind of monsters. This unknown was so much worse. 

Dean knew he was close. His unease was unsurprisingly worse and he had been walking for over five hours now. He wasn’t sure how large the castle grounds were; the map did not pinpoint an exact location or the extent of the property. He had the sneaking suspicion that he’d know when he came across it. A particularly strong gust of wind swept over him and he shivered, tucking his free hand deep into his pocket as his teeth chattered against his will. He looked ahead into the illuminated path cast from his flashlight, silently cursing the place and bitterly thankful that at least it wasn’t raining, too. Then he froze; dead ahead in the darkness he caught the reflection of a pair of eyes like those of a shifter, yellow and low to ground, and to the left between a few trees he saw another. His free hand slowly inched towards his gun where it was tucked in the back waistband of his jeans. The light was not strong enough to reveal the creatures fully at such a distance, but Dean could make out enough: _wolves_.

\--- 

Sam was unusually present for the second day in a row. Yesterday he had woken up and he found himself not having to struggle as much to stay in control. He’d had a good hunt the day before, one that would sustain him a decent while; giving the monster the reign necessary to successfully do so usually meant he spent the following days in a mental wrestling match with the animal inside. Instead, he dreamed of home - nothing special, just driving down the road in the Impala sitting next to Dean, rolling his eyes and playing up the part of annoyed little brother when Dean insisted on cranking Mötley Crüe for the umpteenth time. In the dream it had been warm and sunny, Dean’s features bright in the light of it and lit with the glee he felt whenever he won that eyeroll and the bitchface that invariably followed. Even as the day progressed, Sam could still see that blinding smile, the freckles across his brother’s face, and the obnoxious way he wagged his eyebrows at him. It made him ache but it was welcome - such a human emotion, missing his brother. It might’ve been sad, but Sam was pleased to have any familiar feelings endure so long, and as the day wore on, the memories only fading somewhat, he was calmer and had greater control than he could remember having- well, maybe _ever_ since being trapped in this body.

When he woke again today in a similar state, more dreams and memories of home staying vivid even as he left the fireside where he always slept, he had the presence of mind to be a little surprised. He wasn’t sure what had happened or what had changed to allow him this kind of control, but he was hard-pressed to resent it. He wandered the castle with renewed interest, taking it in with a more focused eye, processing it all through more his own brain than the creature’s. Despite being trapped the same as always, he felt lighter than he could remember, the easy way he directed the giant body he piloted unusual but welcome. After thoroughly exploring the castle, just because he could, he even felt strong enough to venture outside. He stayed close by at first, in the courtyard, and as he took in the sight of all the roses growing wild and scaling the stony facade, he was unaffected by the growing cold of the heavy clouds that cast darkness on the grounds. He dared wander a little farther, out across the grassy fields between the castle walls and the woods that surrounded them on all sides, stopping to peek in at the other outlying buildings that he hadn’t explored since before the incident when he was first transformed. There was one he presumed that, at one time, was for horses, though it was bare and smelled of nothing even with his discriminating nose. There was also another smaller building, perhaps once used for storage, but it too was empty and had been so for so long that its scent revealed nothing as well. He stepped back outside and was going to head back to the castle, intent on curling up in front of the fire, but something on the breeze made him stop. His heart was suddenly racing and he was afraid the monster was about to take over, but it didn’t. He breathed in deeply, intentionally, and the scent was still there, unmistakable. It didn’t matter how long it had been, or where in the world he was, he would know it anywhere: _Dean_.

He didn’t think twice, didn’t hesitate at all; Sam took off in the direction of the smell, leaning into the wind and chasing it as quickly as his large, lumbering body would allow. He hadn’t tried running full-out like this, and before he knew it he was on all fours, his paws slamming heavy against the earth and pushing off hard, driving him faster. His heart was in his ears and all he could hear was a steady thrum of _Dean Dean Dean_. He was still, surprisingly, in control, and as he barrelled on he had a half-formed thought about what Dean would think, what would happen when he finally came across him. Would Dean run away? Would he shoot first and ask questions later? Would it even matter, could bullets even slow him down? Sam didn’t know, and, in that moment, he didn’t care. He was overwhelmed, the wisp of his brother on the wind, reassuring, _familiar_ , was too much; he followed it almost blindly, desperate to lay eyes on his family and - _sweet Jesus_ \- maybe even find a way out of this mess.

As he tore through the woods, zigzagging between the trees and bounding over rocks and roots, his nose twitched. He caught another scent on the wind, one he’d smelled before, though not often. Wolves did live in the mountains near the castle, but Sam had the suspicion that generally they gave the grounds a wide berth on his account. Right now, the smell of them was closer than it had ever been, and he could distinguish between all seven members of the pack. He could sense that they were close together and- _shit_. Their scents were almost completely intertwined with Dean’s now, and Sam growled low as he tried to run faster. He was closing in on them when he heard a gunshot, and then another. It sent a chill through him and he prayed he wouldn’t be too late. As he came up behind them through the trees he slammed to a halt, stood tall, raising his hackles and brandishing his claws; he roared, baring his teeth, and the wolves whimpered, freezing for a moment before cowering low, tails between their legs, and scattering into the woods. His brother laid on the grass, body in a twisted sprawl, gun in hand, his jeans torn and soaked with bright red blood.

\--- 

The first wolf advanced only one step towards him before Dean whipped his gun around and pulled the trigger. The _yelp-thud_ suggested he had aimed true but it didn’t matter – he quickly fired again at the second attacker but the bullet rocketed uselessly into the night sky when another leapt into his right side, knocking him hard onto the ground. His yelp of surprise morphed into a roar of agony as the wolf sunk either its teeth or claws – or both, Dean couldn’t tell through the searing pain - into his leg. It yanked him down, further mauling and tearing at his limb – definitely both, Dean determined - and tried to drag him across the forest floor. Dean struggled to regain some control, both attempting to dislodge the monster from his leg and also fumbling to right the arm holding the gun so he could get a clear shot at the bastard. He cried out in anguish and frustration; he couldn’t believe he’d come all this way and this – _this_ was what was going to keep him from his little brother? Fucking _wolves_ , of all things - not even something supernatural! He grasped hold of a nearby tree root and twisted around, finally able to pull his gun up and shoot the one with its teeth in him, but another was upon him only seconds later. He raised his arms instinctively to protect his face when suddenly there was a great roar, loud as thunder and absolutely chilling. Dean didn’t know what it was; certainly it was not a wolf, the noise it made too deep and profound to come from their small bodies, and it made Dean freeze, even as he was wrecked with pain, lightheaded from fighting and all the blood now seeping out of his body. The wolves froze, too, and Dean felt terror in him spike at the realization. Whatever the mystery creature was, its dominance over the wolves was apparent; its very presence was enough to send the remaining wolves scurrying back into the depths of the woods. Dean dropped his head onto the leaf-covered earth as the smaller foes left him, his vision swimming and his leg too torn up to be of any use in attempting to escape from this new enemy. The darkness was creeping in all around, and his face was wet with tears as it began to pull him under.

“I’m so sorry, Sammy…” he sobbed out weakly, his breath hitching and his body shaking. Just before the last of his consciousness narrowed and dimmed, he swore he saw eyes above him in the growing blackness, a shimmering of blues, greens, and golds, and then, nothing.

\---

Dean woke up slowly, and then, as he shifted more intentionally, all at once. The sharp pain in his head competed with the hot ache of his legs, and, as he remembered being attacked, he felt a flood of panic. He threw himself upright and the movement send pain like lightning through his body. He promptly dropped back to the bed, passing out.

As consciousness found him again, he moved more slowly, careful not to jostle his head or his injured limbs. He lay still, blinking up at the rich velvet tapestry that made up the cover of what had to be an old - _very_ old - four poster bed. Gingerly, he held his head in one hand and used the other to help in his struggle to sit upright. He was panting and the corners of his eyes were wet by the time he had himself properly propped up. He pressed the palm of his hand into his temple to ease the pressure and, squinting, surveyed the room in which he found himself.

He was lying in the middle of giant bed, a little short but plenty wide, rich silk panels lined with velvet drawn and tied to the posts. He was on top of equally silky covers, but a soft, fur blanket had been laid over him. The room was mostly empty apart from the bed, with just a solitary, antique-looking, wooden armchair by the window and a small fireplace set into the wall that didn’t look like it’d been used in decades, maybe centuries. A tapestry covered the interior wall, mostly faded from however many years of sunlight that has spilled in the window opposite it, and, while it might have been richly coloured at one point in time, Dean couldn’t make out much of what its design depicted from where he sat. His duffle bag sat on the floor by the bed, beside it his boots, and next to them was a large bowl of water and- _was that a rabbit?_ On a large plate next to the water was what looked like a skinned, roasted rabbit. Dean cringed at the thought, but supposed he had eaten worse things, not that he was overwhelmingly hungry at the moment. He did still have some water and granola bars in his bag, but he wondered if maybe he should save them. He was burdened with a lot of unknowns and unanswered questions. Someone - or _something_ \- saved him from being completely mauled by those wolves, so that wasn’t nothing. He was, he supposed, safe for the moment. He was given water and food, and a bed, so he could imagine the person - or thing - responsible wasn’t trying to starve or deny him, and that was good news, too. He took a deep breath and braced himself before pulling aside the blanket that covered his legs.

His first thought was actually one of surprise, because he realized he wasn’t wearing pants. He imagined they must have been pretty shredded, and certainly they would have impeded whoever’s ability to tend to his wounds. As it was, his legs were loosely wrapped in strips of old cloth, blood having soaked through in some places but dark and dry now. The first aid was sloppy but Dean appreciated the attempt nonetheless. He reluctantly let go of his head so he could better examine the damage.

He carefully peeled away the linen and grimaced at what it revealed. There were more than a few minor lacerations and small tears, but there were at least two sizeable, almost gaping wounds on his left leg, which bore the worst of the damage. They needed to be cleaned and stitched, sooner rather than later. He was grateful for the first aid kit he knew was tucked in his duffle, that it would have everything he needed to disinfect and sew himself together.

It was no easy feat, and Dean was huffing and sweating with the effort it took just to shimmy to the edge of the bed and dig in the bag to retrieve his kit. He leaned his aching head against the bedpost and shut his eyes, waves of exhaustion and pain passing through him. He let himself catch his breath before hauling himself back against the pillows, carefully lifting his legs back up on the bed, and started in. 

He was pretty sure he only passed out again once before he finished, but he was fairly impressed with himself by the time he tied off the thread and sagged back against the headboard. His head was aching furiously with all the focus he’d needed while sewing the stitches, and he was so tired that he didn’t even flinch when he took the alcohol wipes to all the cuts. He delicately covered them with antibiotic ointment and tightly wrapped them with the field dressings and bandages in his kit. They felt a bit better with the gentle pressure, and then, finally finished properly patching himself back together, Dean allowed sleep to again take him.


	8. Chapter Seven

When Dean woke next, his head still ached but the pain in his legs was only pronounced with movement. His stomach was also grumbling. He forced himself onto the floor, holding onto the bed for dear life as he lowered himself down, then he pushed and slid himself toward the food and water. The bowl was large and, full as it was, it was difficult to maneuver, but he managed, only spilling a little down the front of his hoodie. He tried not to think too hard as he took a small knife out of his bag and used it to peel away pieces of meat from the rabbit. It wasn’t as bad as he expected, but it was far from something he’d want to eat again if he had a choice. He was cold without his blanket and even colder on the floor, bare-legged and only the thin layer of his boxers between the stone and his ass. He rooted in his bag for the one extra pair of jeans he’d packed and winced and gasped his way through painfully putting them on. He was absolutely exhausted from that, but he was determined to get back on the bed before he passed out again. Sweat was beading on his forehead as he gripped the frame and, putting the bulk of his weight on his right, tried to keep his left leg straight as he pulled himself up with a groan. He practically face-planted, lying askew across the covers, and he was out before he had a chance to reposition himself.

Dean was almost comfortable when he woke up. While he had slept, someone had moved him on the bed so he was on his back with his head on the pillows, and he had been tucked in with the fur blanket. He was warm and, when he didn’t move, nothing hurt. He couldn’t stay still long though, because he definitely had to piss. He groaned as he sat up again, less difficult than it had been the first time, but still unpleasant. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go. He rubbed his hand over his head as he sat on the edge of the bed, and he tentatively stood up, leaning on his less injured leg and holding onto the post just in case. He craned his neck to look around the bare room for something to use as a makeshift crutch, not sure he could get around, when he noticed something just under the edge of the bed at the foot.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me…” He leaned forward awkwardly to pull it out by the ceramic handle. _A fucking chamber pot_. He laughed to himself and it felt loud in the quiet of the otherwise empty room. This would certainly be a first, but he didn’t see many other options. He relieved himself and gently nudged the pot back under the bed with his foot. He drank some more water, noticing that it had been topped off, though there were still drying splashes that littered the ground around it, as though the person refilling it had kept spilling. The rabbit had been replaced as well. Dean wondered how long he’d been out, if perhaps instead of hours it had been days that he’d been lying about in this room. He could only assume it was days now, if for no other reason than the pounding in his head had subsided somewhat and only his left leg with the large gashes still bothered him. 

Dean wondered a bit about his host as he returned to the bed, pulling the blanket back around him. Someone was taking care of him, but he thought it odd that they had yet to be found sitting in the lonely chair by the window, waiting to talk to him one of the times when he was awake. They’d been in and out enough now that it occurred to him that maybe this individual, while caring about his wellbeing, was also avoiding him, only coming into the room when they were sure Dean was asleep. Dean couldn’t think what to expect, but given that this person was making sure he didn’t starve, it wasn't like he was going to shoot them or something. He frowned. And they couldn’t be Sam. _Sam_. He had been so close! He wanted to believe this was Blencathra, but that led to more questions than it did answers. He could only hope his brother was alive and in another room, kept healthy by a similar kindness, just waiting for Dean to come and rescue him. He sighed, his head throbbing again, and let himself drift off to thoughts of wrapping Sam in his arms, the kid’s face buried in his shoulder like he always used to do, even though after all these years he suspected the bastard would somehow be taller still.

His next waking was even easier. He felt rested and his head protested only quietly when he sat up in the bed. He drank and ate and used the pot, which he was shocked to discover had been emptied. He hoped it was by someone a bit more coordinated than whoever usually replaced his water. He didn’t think on it long, because after all of that, he still felt like he had energy enough to try venturing out. The sun was shining in his window brightly and he was inspired. He hobbled over to the ledge to look out. He was on what he guessed to be the second floor, and below he saw a courtyard with an old fountain, dry and overrun with roses. As he looked around, he realized that many of the walls visible to him were scaled by roses, too, growing wild and seemingly everywhere. The verdant courtyard was otherwise empty. He turned back to his room and glanced at the large door. 

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing his gun from his duffle and tucking it into his pants just in case. He went to reach for his jacket and- _that’s weird_. No jacket. He looked around the room, puzzled, before conceding that it really wasn’t with him. He must’ve lost it in the woods during the wolf attack. He hobbled over to the door, limping noticeably, but the pain was manageable for the time being. He pressed his ear to the aged wood and listened: nothing. He tried not to hold his breath as he finally swung the door open.

It creaked quietly on its ancient hinges and the corridor outside was silent, wide under a high, arched ceiling. There were tapestries and suits of armour along the walls in either direction, occasionally interrupted by other closed doors. He moved as stealthily as his wounded leg allowed, and crossed the hall to the next closest room. He was still on a mission - find his brother or die trying - and he would search every corner of this castle before anyone could make him believe Sam wasn’t there. He listened against the door, heard nothing, and carefully pushed it open. Inside, the room was almost familiar. It was just like his, except it, and the bed, were notably smaller. He sighed, having learned nothing, and moved on.

All the rooms in his hallway were more or less the same, small and varying only in the colour of cloth on the beds and the assortment of furniture that accompanied it. He felt uneasy as he explored, much like he had when he was in the woods. As he hobbled his way along, he kept getting chills and he had the distinct impression that every time he looked back, the statues and rusted suits had somehow shifted from the positions they'd held when he last glanced them. He tried not to let it get to him as he turned the corner. Before him was a mezzanine, opening to a large foyer below, the hallway ending in a grand staircase that led to giant, ornate doors. They were lined on either side by windows of rather exquisite stained glass. The colourful images began at the floor and followed the edge of the doors up, extending further into a prismatic arch above them. In the centre-most panel was a large red rose, illuminated with all shades of yellow shining out as though it were a light itself, and then flames of orange fire engulfed it on either side. It was honestly stunning. The light from outside streamed in, casting a multicoloured echo onto the smooth stone floor.

By the time Dean was at the top of the stairs, he was all too grateful for the railing, the banister providing him much appreciated support. He was starting to feel fatigued, but he could tell he had a lot of castle left to explore, and the need to check for his brother was overwhelming everything else. It took a painfully long time to get down the stairs to the main floor, and Dean was panting and sweaty when he got there. He took a few minutes to cling to the baluster and catch his breath. Looking around, his breathing finally calm and even again, he listened. Still nothing. The castle was eerily silent, despite the fact that Dean _knew_ he wasn’t alone there. 

He continued along, checking the rooms as he went, but he saw nothing of note - no sign of Sam. There was a large dining hall and a smaller one, as well as some sitting rooms. Dean pressed on with hope of soon finding his brother, and when he saw another set of larger, more decorated doors at the end of the hallway he couldn’t help the flutter of excitement - _this might be it_. He carefully pulled open one of the doors and his eyes went wide as he scanned the inside.

It was a massive library. It was two full stories high, with warm, worn wooden shelves stretching tall from floor to ceiling. The room was huge; it had to take up the bulk of the centre of the entire castle, with all the other rooms arranged around the outside. The wall to the right had shorter shelves, with more stained glass windows above them, throwing kaleidoscope shadows on the floor at the centre of the room. Every available space of shelving was packed with ancient looking tomes, the kind Bobby would be itching to get his hands on. 

“Damn, Sammy, if you could see this place...” he barely breathed it, whistling low in approval as he took it all in, a bit wistful at the thought of his genius baby brother totally freaking at the sight of all that knowledge in one room. _Nerd_.

His eyes continued to scour the seemingly endless shelves of books, but as he passed the last of the freestanding shelves to his right, he froze; in the far back corner of the room was an enormous stone hearth, a fire burning steady within it, and lying in front of it was a gigantic beast. It was quite possibly the largest creature Dean had ever seen. His next movement was pure instinct; following the terror that rose tight in his throat, he grabbed his gun and aimed it with steady hands despite his fear and the fresh pain in his leg as he took a solid stance. He blinked, watching the monster keenly, seeing how its back rose and fell in a deep, steady rhythm. It was asleep. Dean was practically lightheaded with relief at the realization. He stood there motionless, unable to tear his gaze away.

The creature was clearly huge; Dean could only imagine how large it would be standing. As it was, it was curled in on itself, much like a dog would be, with its immense head resting on impressive paws. Its whole body was covered in long, shaggy, chestnut fur, and there were two small horns protruding from the mane-like nest on its head. Its ears were large, too, furry and standing upright, twitching occasionally. A bushy tail wrapped around the length of the creature’s body, coming to rest just shy of its matte black nose, the fur at the paintbrush tip rustling with each heavy exhale from nostrils the size of quarters. It almost looked peaceful, but Dean was no fool. He didn’t even know if his bullets could do this thing any damage. He wasn’t about to go in guns blazing and get torn to shreds for his trouble. So instead, Dean gathered his wits and started to back out of the room slowly, quiet as he could manage. He fought hard to move gracefully on his now screaming leg, his breath as slow and controlled as he could keep it, and by the time he closed the large double doors and was standing back in the hallway, he was overcome with a sudden weariness, the effort of fighting his leg taking its toll. He caught himself against the door but awkwardly slid down, trying to protect his leg and groaning with the rapid increase of pain in his head. It was a sharp, splitting pain, and when he was finally in a crumpled heap on the ground, his head back against the door, his consciousness slipped away.

\---

Dean came to almost without realizing it. He kept his eyes closed and, when it occurred to him he was awake, he desperately tried not to let on; he fought the instinct he had to freeze up and squint his eyes, forcing his body to stay heavy and lithe, his expression soft. A hot, huffing breath was rhythmically spilling over his face and he was warm - _so_ warm - and the fur against the back of his neck and his cheek was stunningly soft. He could feel his body shift as the creature carrying him took careful, strong steps, and he didn’t need to open his eyes to know what was happening; the beast had scooped him up from where he’d passed out on the floor and was lugging him off to God knows where, albeit a bit awkwardly, clutching Dean to its massive chest as it ambled along on just its hind legs, walking like a human.

_Moment of truth_. Dean had entertained - _just barely_ \- the notion that this monster was actually the one taking care of him, but it seemed too ludicrous to seriously consider. Wherever he ended up now would certainly answer that question.

Things got a little bumpy as the beast lumbered up a set of stairs, jostling Dean with every shift of its weight from one step to the next. Dean tried to picture the thing as it carried him, what it might look like standing upright, cradling a fully grown man like a giant baby. How small and edible he must look in its grip - Dean tamped down the whimper at the thought, praying his ‘playing possum’ routine was the right choice. The creature stopped finally and Dean wasn’t sure how long he’d been carried before he woke up, but he was going to hazard a guess that they were outside his room. The beast paused a moment and Dean wondered what was happening, until it transferred his body to its left side, supporting him with just one arm and a knee as it came up underneath him, freeing the other paw to fumble with the large doorknob - a rather awkward task, if the many scrapes of claws on metal and frustrated rumbles from the beast’s chest were anything to go by. Finally the latch released and the door fell open with a rather rude squeal; Dean felt the beast’s other arm come back under his knees and then the creature folded inwards and around him, needing to become as small as possible to squeeze them both through the narrow frame. Fur surrounded Dean’s face completely for those few moments, and he couldn’t help but breathe in the scent - surprisingly clean, though definitely wild, maybe even a little rosey, and something else Dean couldn’t quite identify, almost familiar. The thought made Dean shudder, though he wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t think the beast noticed because by then it had straightened back upright and was stopping at the edge of Dean’s bed. Dean was more than a little surprised at the absolutely gentle way in which he was laid upon the bed. He continued to be still, though his urge to open his eyes and see what was happening was remarkably strong. The beast covered him with the fur blanket, tucking him in with its paws which felt massive against Dean’s body. A moment passed where Dean just listened, the sound of the beast’s breathing the only sound in the room apart from the anxious pounding of his heart in his own ears. Then the beast’s breath was hot on his face again and he forced himself not to react to the proximity. The creature sniffed once or twice, and then- it _nuzzled_ its furry face against Dean’s. There was no other word for it. Dean didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he heard the door close firmly with the beast’s exit. He waited one heartbeat, then another, before he shot up in the bed, eyes wide, his breathing back, but short and tight in his chest, and wondering what the actual fuck was going on here.


	9. Chapter Eight

Bobby was more restless than he could remember being in a long time. He’d been trying to quiet his nerves with a steady supplement of Hunter’s Helper but he was still antsy. It had been just over a week since he got the phone call from Dean over in England saying he was going to storm the castle, and even though he knew it wouldn’t work he’d tried calling Dean’s cell phone more times that he cared to admit. He hadn’t heard a peep from their angel “friend” since he took off after zapping Dean’s ass half-way across the planet, and while he was digging up a wealth of rumours and hearsay about Blencathra, there wasn’t a lot of much that felt actually _concrete_ , and everything he read just served to make him more anxious.

It seemed that the castle had just always existed, its time of origin completely unknown, and the woods and mountains surrounding it had a never ending list of disappearances that went back centuries. There were lots of reports and stories that would suggest a kind of monster lived there, feeding on anyone who trespassed, sending roars and cries into the night and never leaving bodies behind. All the other lore suggested that the castle was constructed and maintained by Satanists, or active Devil-worshippers, who were fulfilling some kind of important task making ‘a home for Lucifer on Earth’. None of these things were reassuring.

After what felt like days reading historical reports of the documented hauntings over the years, Bobby slammed his laptop shut, finally exasperated and at his wit’s end with worry over Dean.

“That’s it,” he grumbled to himself and he stood up, grabbing his notes ruffly and piling them on his laptop and taking them both in his arms as he head upstairs. He started to pack.

The flight across the pond was less than pleasant, significantly more time that he felt comfortable sharing an enclosed space with so many strangers, and Bobby was more than a little envious that Dean had managed to skip that part by the time he landed, his legs cramped, back stiff, and his grumpiness levels significantly higher than usual. His mood was not improved by the time he had to pay for a nearly two hour taxi ride to Bowscale. The driver let him off at the edge of town and, shouldering his heavy duffle, Bobby walked into town to seek out the Church of the Morningstar.

As he wandered he noted that none of the people he’d passed had said anything to him, most of them looking at him blatantly in a way that more than once made him knit his brows together. Though looking around he could tell it wasn’t exactly like the place was likely to get many out-of-town or unfamiliar visitors. There was legitimately nothing there besides the old cottages and farms inhabited by the people that called it home, one local public house that he could see, a convenience store that sold essentials - snacks, booze, smokes - and housed the post office and public phone, and then the little church. Bobby did notice, however, one detail of interest. Almost every house he passed bore a small marking - the _same_ small marking. He almost didn’t think anything of it until the third time he spotted it. In was usually in the left corner of the doorframe, or left corner or the placard bearing the building’s address: a tiny, simple carving of a single rose. When he saw it more often than he didn’t, he resolved to ask Dean’s priest friend about it. 

Bobby was standing in front of the door to the Church’s rectory before he knew it. He knocked on the door and was greeted by a young man, clean shaven and doe-eyed, wearing a traditional cassock and collar. He blinked at Bobby once through his reading glasses and smiled largely.

“Hello, there!” He said, cheerfully. Bobby could already tell this guy wasn’t from here; his easy friendliness made him stick out just as much as his priestly garb.

Bobby opened his mouth to say something and the young priest’s expression had already changed into one oddly knowing, so Bobby closed it again and tilted his head, inquiring.

“Let me guess… Mr. Robert Singer?” 

Bobby blinked, surprised.

“Uh… Yeah. Bobby, please. And Father Eric?” He grumbled back. Fr. Eric nodded.

“Please, do come inside.” He stood back and held the door open, gesturing for Bobby to enter. He did, and his host nodded for him to take a seat. Bobby did that, too, dropping his bag down, checking the zipper, and then tucking it under the small table, behind his legs. He looked up and Fr. Eric was smiling differently now, as though he was trying not to laugh.

“What?” Bobby tried not to growl, his mood still a little sour after all the travel, the jet-lag, and the unpleasant stares of the people of Bowscale.

“Everything you did just then. Dean more or less did everything exactly the same when he sat here over a week ago. It’s so clear you’re family.”

Fr. Eric took his seat across from Bobby and that was not what the seasoned hunter had expected to hear. He felt his face flush and he tried not to look uncomfortable. He wasn’t going to correct him. And if the thought warmed his heart a little, that was none of anyone’s business.

“So uh…” he started slowly, unsure. “You aren’t exactly surprised to see me.”

The priest sighed and his eyes looked saddened.

“Dean gave me your information… for if things didn’t go well. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to know either way, but when the days turned into a week, I started to fear the worst. I tried calling a couple times and when all I got was your voicemail…” He paused, but looked as though he was going to say more so Bobby waited him out, his eyebrows raised encouragingly. “Listen, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know something strange is going on here. I know there’s more to this than a missing brother.” 

Bobby fixed the young man in front of him with a discerning gaze, trying to read him. The look was returned confidently. Bobby wasn’t sure what he was up against, but both his Winchester kids were in the wind and he was going to need all the help he could get. He didn’t debate long before he decided to go with his gut and give Fr. Eric a chance. 

“Are you a superstitious man, Father?” Bobby began, seriously. The priest did start to laugh at that. When Bobby seemed surprised, he explained.

“I asked Dean that very same question.” He stopped laughing and gave the hunter a resigned look. “Something tells me I’m about to be educated.” 

Bobby had to give him credit; he was sharp, and he appeared unafraid. Bobby took a deep breath and laid it out - all of it. All things supernatural, hunting, John, Mary, Azazel, Sam, Dean, the stories he dug up on Blencathra… He held off on the angel and the Apocalypse for the time being, if only because he thought it might be a touchy subject for the Catholic priest. To his continued credit, he took the speech well, nodding and asking logical questions, seemingly nonplussed. When Bobby had caught him up as well as he could minus those last few details, he paused to observe the man in front of him. Eric simply sat, looking thoughtful. When the silence started to stretch out, Bobby cleared his throat softly.

“How’re you holding up? He ventured. 

“Bobby, I’ve heard rumours. Of things like those you’ve said to me. I just had never… experienced anything for myself. But accepting what you’re saying… on some level it has to be a part of my faith. Certainly, the world seems larger than it may have, but then again, maybe not. It was always fairly surreal to be alive, and part of God’s creation. I just… didn’t always take the Bible quite so literally.”

Bobby hummed at his words.

“Sometimes it’s more literal than I’d like,” he said roughly, wagging his eyebrows to try and make light of it. Eric nodded gravely, his eyes wide.

“What can I do to help you?” He asked in earnest.

Bobby clapped his hands on his knees, looking around, his eyes falling on the little potted roses on the table between them.

“Well, I was going to ask about all the roses. They seem to be etched into most of the building around here. I couldn’t help but notice, also, always on the left, which feels a little ominous.”

“Yes, I noticed that when I arrived as well. My parishioners talk only of the roses that grow wild in the woods on the mountain, how on days in the summer with strong enough wind sometimes you can smell them in the air. They say the place is just known for them, but given everything you’ve said, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it.” He contemplated a moment. “And actually, it’s not only on the outside of the buildings. I’m certain I’ve noticed it inside the Church. Just- come this way, would you please?” 

Bobby quickly obliged, getting to his feet and following the priest down his small hallway. He lead them through the door at the end and into the church, which was modest and plain, as far as churches went. Bobby followed him towards the altar, between the wall and the pews, until the wall gave way and to the left was a small recessed area - the Sacristy - with a wardrobe for his vestments and some bookshelves. 

“See? Here.” Fr. Erc went straight to the bookshelf against the far wall and pointed it out immediately. There was a rose carved into the wood, and the book closest to it bore a tiny rose on the spine. 

Bobby shrugged at the man and reached his hand out to take the book. When he tugged on it, it came down like a lever instead, and both he and Eric stepped back, surprised at the sounds of mechanical whirring and the book replacing itself upright.

“I’ll be damned…” Bobby breathed. Eric stood gaping in stunned silence. The bookshelf slowly swung out, revealing a narrow doorway that opened into a small room. Eric gestured for the hunter to go ahead. Bobby stepped into the short corridor with the priest one step behind him and when they came to stand in the secret room, Bobby was quiet. Eric made the sign of the cross.

“Well, this sure as Hell ain’t a good sign.”

The room contained a simple altar and behind it was a large inscription of Lucifer’s sigil and the rose that was present all over town. Actually there were roses and rose petals _everywhere_. They were dried out, but not in a way that suggested the room hadn’t been entered for centuries. Looking from the full vase on the altar, surrounded by candles and petals, to the floor which was completely covered in them, too, Bobby had the sneaking suspicion that Fr. Eric’s predecessor was the last one to bring in the flowers, and the Church of the Morningstar was indeed named for all the reasons Bobby feared. 

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say.” Eric stuttered out, barely a whisper.

Bobby stepped forward to look more closely at the altar. He dusted off the dried petals and revealed a slim leather-bound book bearing the rose insignia on the cover.

“I take it you know what that is? At least, the sigil?” Bobby pointed briefly at the image above the altar.

Eric nodded grimly.

“It means Lucifer.” He swallowed thickly. “Devil worship. _In a house of God_. It… it’s perverted.”

Bobby felt a pang of guilt and pity for dragging Eric into this, but he rationalized that it could save him in the long run, with what might be coming. He hadn’t known him long but he liked Eric; there was something genuine about him. 

“Still no idea about the rose, though…” Bobby muttered, almost to himself, as he open the book. “This is in Latin. I-”

“I can read it. I’ll help you.” Eric said quickly, looking determined.

“That makes two of us, Father. But at least the going will be easier this way.”

Eric was standing beside him, looking over his shoulder at the book.

“It… It begins much like Revelations. But…” He squinted as his eyes scanned the page, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. “There are lines here- there’s more to it than the Revelations in the Bible.”

Bobby groaned inwardly. Revelations could only mean more Apocalypse talk. 

“Father, let’s get this book back into the rectory. This place gives me the creeps.”

Eric nodded in enthusiastic agreement and gathered the book in his hands, following Bobby back out, sure to replace the bookshelf when they left.

A few hours later, a bleary-eyed Bobby shuffled out of Eric’s spare room and back into his living area. The priest had absolutely insisted Bobby take a nap to fight the jet-lag and let Eric take first crack at the book, since only one of them could read it at a time anyway. As it turned out, that was a wise decision. When the young man told Bobby he could read Latin, he meant it. It looked like he’d made great headway already.

“Okay, so this is definitely Revelations, the extended edition. There are terms and references in here I’ve not seen anywhere else.” Eric started. Bobby rubbed his eyes with one hand as he sat opposite his host, who was visibly excited to tell him everything he’d learned. He had a Latin dictionary and a notepad open next to the tome on the small table, as well as a cup of tea and plate of biscuits that appeared untouched. The notepad was full of neat, meticulously written shorthand. 

“I tried to keep track of anything that might be relevant to us, so Lucifer or anything to do with roses and, frankly…” Eric looked at Bobby grimly. “I’m not 100% sure what to make of what I’ve got so far, but it really does not sound good.” 

Bobby sighed, already exasperated. ‘Good’ was not among the things he dared hope for at the moment.

“Go ahead and lay it on me, Father.” He said, resigned.

“Well, best I can make of it, this rose? It’s called ‘the Mark of the Beast.’ I haven’t gotten through all of it yet, and it seems to be written expecting the reader to already have certain knowledge and understanding. For example, there’s talk of a- a _vessel?_ Which-”

Bobby groaned, dragging a hand over his face. 

“Something you’ve heard of, I take it?” Eric inquired.

“Only recently. What’s it got to say about vessels?”

“Um, well, it says that the ‘Mark of the Beast’ is bestowed on Lucifer’s vessel. The way it reads, it sounds like a- a spell, maybe? Or more aptly a curse. Only a true vessel can bear the Mark, and it _might_ transform the wearer into an _actual_ beast, though the language is unclear. It’s not clear on this either but it suggests the Mark serves to protect and keep the vessel, strengthening it for Lucifer’s coming.”

As the pieces clicked into place, Bobby’s stomach flipped unpleasantly.

“Balls…” he cursed under his breath without thinking. Fr. Eric only raised an eyebrow.

“We gotta keep at that book. And I need to get in touch with Dean ASAP.”


	10. Chapter Nine

Sam found everything easier having Dean around. He was so much more in control and he was able to remember things - things from before - and better able to hold on to the things happening now. For example, he knew, somehow, that Dean had been in his life again for nine days, the majority of which he spent unconscious and recovering in his room. He was also clear-headed enough that he could suppose the increased control he’d experienced prior to rescuing his brother was because Dean was close by. Just being able to have that thought made Sam almost giddy. He was more cognizant than he had ever been in this form, and he _knew_ it was because of Dean. Despite all the fur, the teeth, the claws- _hell_ , the _tail_ \- Dean was helping him stay human. 

That said, his experience of his brother was, well, different. For one thing, it was his _smell_. Sam had always been able to recognize his brother by his nose, even as a human. They practically lived in each other’s back pockets for chrissakes, in the cramped confines of the Impala or small motel rooms. His brother’s scent had always been comforting, like home, soothing after nightmares or times when Dad would take Dean on hunts and leave Sam behind to go out of his mind with worry. In this body, though, Dean was _everywhere_. 

After charging headfirst into the fray to rescue his brother, Sam had found being in his presence made it easier to think with his human mind. After tending to him as well as his awkward, giant body would allow, he had the presence of mind to realize interacting with Dean when he was conscious could be very dangerous - for both of them. Who knew what Dean would do face-to-face with whatever Sam was- actually, Sam knew _exactly_ what Dean would do, and it wouldn’t be good at all. Sam still had animal instincts to contend with, despite the help from Dean’s closeness, and he worried if Dean attacked he wouldn’t be able to stop the beast from defending itself. So, determined to keep his distance but desperate not to let go of his stronger hold on his humanity, Sam made off with Dean’s leather jacket, tucking it away near the fireplace where he slept, keeping it close and burrowing into it for all the scent and memory it gave him of _brother_ , and _Dean_ , and _home_. 

Sam successfully snuck around, avoiding Dean’s few and brief waking moments while checking in on him often if for no other reason than seeing him with his own eyes made him feel strong and made him feel safe. Dean was _here_. He’d found him, like he always knew he would, and when he was better, when they got past the inevitable hurdle of meeting and Sam could somehow make himself known to his brother, Dean would get him out of this mess. Seeing him was calming, reassuring, and also… kind of a compulsion. Sometimes, with the way the whole castle seemed to smell of him, Sam couldn’t resist being close, something driving the creature to almost yearn for his brother. Sam was all too familiar with the creature mind, but all the ways it processed Dean were new and strange to him, not easy to decipher, and they were getting stronger, more insistent. When Sam had to collect Dean from outside the library and put him back to bed, he hadn’t been quick enough to stop the monster from rubbing up against Dean’s face, and he anxiously fought to reign it in and flee from the room before the contact woke his brother or turned into something else. He was just relieved that whatever the creature’s impulses towards his brother, so far none of them seemed inclined to maim or otherwise kill. 

Either way, Dean’s proximity made it easier for Sam to live in the beast’s body with a newly developed sense of autonomy, even able to keep control when hunting, which he had to do more of and with discretion, because he wasn’t sure how his brother would react to a large chunk of deer to eat, even if Sam managed to cook it the way he had been with Dean’s rabbits, nudging them close to the fire and turning them over as necessary to assume them cooked through. His brother wasn’t eating much, and it worried him, but he supposed there was little he could do to change that. He noticed as he put Dean back to bed that he hadn’t eaten the last hare Sam had set out for him and he still had most of his water, so he simply returned to the library. He added more chunks of wood to the fire and curled up on top of his brother’s jacket, content to doze in the light and comfort of the blaze. He tried not to worry, because in his heart he knew Dean was getting well enough and bold enough now to explore the castle, and it meant sooner rather than later they would come face-to-face. He just hoped his brother had put enough together not to try and kill him when that happened. 

Sam lazed about in front of the fire as the sun’s light faded outside, the library getting a little darker and less painted by the bright shadows from the stained glass. He was awake though, and smelled Dean’s approach long before he heard his brother limping on the other side of the library doors. _This was it_. He didn’t want to stare, didn’t want to let Dean think the creature he’d see had been anticipating him. He thought perhaps it was good he was curled up the way he was, wanting to appear as approachable and unmenacing as possible. He breathed in deeply as he heard Dean slowly push open the door, and fought all the instincts in him that were itching to throw himself at Dean, to pounce and tumble him, to- _Jesus_ , he wanted to _lick_ him. That- that was definitely the beast, Sam thought hurriedly, and he crushed that impulse harder than all the rest, focusing his gaze in the depths of the flames.

He could hear Dean’s breathing even from as far as he was standing in the doorway; he could hear the way his brother struggled for his own control. Sam’s animal nose told him so much, and with Dean near him and conscious for the first time, he gave off more than he ever did asleep: fear, anxiety, and uncertainty were at the forefront, but resolve there was also, and strength. Sam could smell all the nuances of his brother’s emotions plain as day and it was strange, to say the least. As Dean cautiously started to make his way towards him, Sam swished his tail to let him know he was awake and adjusted his head where it rested on his paws so Dean could see him looking and hopefully take his lack of larger movement as non-threatening. He watched his brother pause, seeing his eyes on him, and could sense his internal conflict, no doubt debating whether or not to continue. After a moment, Dean took another step, and Sam noticed that Dean didn’t have his weapon drawn. He felt a shiver of excited hope low in his stomach. When his tail wagged, it was of its own volition. 

Dean seemed to be taking him in with keen eyes, and his expression when he saw Sam’s tail was one Sam remembered fondly: his brother cocked his head and his eyebrow raised in question, his mouth puzzled, and Sam wondered if he looked as much of the puppy that he was starting to feel as his brother got closer. Rationally, he knew he was giant, and monstrous, and he had claws and teeth that were capable of great damage - his voice alone had been enough that day in the woods to establish dominance and scare away a whole pack of wild wolves - but being this close to Dean, he wasn’t sure if his animal brain was all mixed-up, maybe coloured by his human memories and emotions connected to his brother. He was starting to feel full of a nervous, excited energy. It was bubbly and exuberant and it seemed to get stronger with every step Dean took to close the distance between them. Sam couldn’t help it; when only a few feet remained, he lifted his head, his tail still thumping happily against the floor, and his ears pressed back and down alongside his head as Dean raised the palms of his hands to him in the universally recognized gesture of _please don’t bite me_. It was the least of the impulses Sam was fighting.

It seemed, though, that Dean could sense Sam’s excitement because he stopped again, still out of arm’s reach, his eyes connected with Sam’s. The longer Dean held his gaze the more Sam had to resist the urge to roll over and show Dean his belly. He was baffled. The last thing he expected was the monster’s overwhelming desire to be _submissive_ ; it was not an instinct he’d experienced as of yet in this body, his other interactions limited to those with the other human he’d mauled - by accident - and the Yellow-eyed demon whom he _wanted_ to maul but who somehow could exert an infuriating influence on him. 

He started to get up, staying on all fours, his tail still wagging - because Sam didn’t think he could stop it if he tried - but the movement startled his brother. Dean fliched, shaking a little, and his quick movement in turn startled Sam, or at least, the creature part. Sam shied back, sinking low and away from his brother.

“Whoa, easy there…”

Dean’s voice, even quiet, coaxed a noticeable response from Sam’s body; he trembled a little and cautiously leaned closer now instead of away. His sharp eyes watched as Dean swallowed thickly, visibly forcing himself to open his hand and reach out to the beast. He couldn’t help the way the animal nose flared and sniffed at Dean's proffered hand, almost like the tail, his body acting on its own accord. A heartbeat later, Sam pressed his nose against his brother’s hand. He hadn’t had contact like this in- well, ever, really, however long he’d been here, and he was nudging Dean’s hand before could stop himself. Hesitantly, Dean seemed to get the message, and he started to slowly stroke up his snout, scritching through the shorter fur there with his nails. Sam felt like he was smiling; he wasn’t sure what that looked like on the face of the monster, but inside, it was wide and dimpled. 

\---

When Dean decided he had no other choice but to make his way back downstairs to confront the creature, it was fair to say he didn’t know what to expect - but what was happening now was so far from left field that Dean hadn’t even considered it. It was behaving uncannily like, well, a giant _dog_. It was still scary as all hell, the size of it alone was enough to strike fear into the strongest hearts, but then there were the teeth, and the claws… Really, if Dean had to guess, it was like a behemoth cross between a bear and a wolf. It had the long bushy tail of a wolf and it was wagging like any happy dog Dean had ever seen. Its body was long and lean but bulky across the shoulders, and the paws were frighteningly big, decidedly bearlike with some obvious dexterity. Its face was bearlike, too, except it still bore the same fur of its whole body which was longer and softer, and its ears reminded Dean of a wolf’s, tall and pointed. Of course it had those two small horns barely visible in the nest of fur that surrounded them, which weren’t like much of anything- _except the Devil_ , his brain supplied readily, which was silly, because the Devil was an _angel_ after all, and as far as Dean knew those _didn’t_ have horns. He tried not to frown while it had its eyes fixed on him like it did. _Those eyes_. They were large and bright, proportional with the sheer size of its head but somehow, they seemed less animal, more hu- _no_. Dean couldn’t. He wouldn’t think it. The swirling blue-green-gold of the shining orbs was like an echo of something he knew, and his chest was suddenly tight and he hurt in a way completely distinct from the pains of his head or his leg. 

As the ginormous fur-bound bundle of energy rubbed its nose into his hand for absentminded scratches, Dean shook his head in disbelief. This situation had officially passed into the realm of the ridiculous. Dean really didn’t know what to make of the beast inhabiting this castle, taking care of him, but he did know a few things: one, his brother was missing and this castle was his only lead; two, he was in no condition to try and escape because it was a half day’s hike through those bloody wolf-infested woods back to the village, and between his leg and his likely concussion that was just a terrible idea; and three, this overgrown creature was hardly out to get him. He was still wary, but as he smoothed his hand up and into the longer fur on the top of its head, scratching at its ears to more tail-wagging and a chorus of small, _happy_ sounds, it was hard not to feel a twinge of relief. Dean knew he was stuck in the castle for a little longer while his leg continued to heal, but at least this thing was not a threat. Maybe now he could finally finish clearing the rest of the rooms in the castle, and start dreaming up his next steps to look for Sam.

Remaining standing grew difficult and tiring; his show of strength when approaching the creature had meant putting more weight on his bad leg than it was ready to take. His torn muscles were aching and weakening by the second, his knee threatening to buckle as he pet the beast in front of him. He shifted the bulk of his weight to his better leg but it threw him a little off balance and he slipped; out of instinct he gripped the fur under his hand, reaching out with the other for the beast’s face or neck - whatever he could grab - before he could stop himself. The animal startled and Dean cringed, both with the jolts of pain and the fear at its quick movement, but the beast shot out a massive arm to catch him, starting to stand up and bring Dean snug against its body again to keep him upright. Dean clung to it shakily, cursing his uncooperative leg under his breath. The creature stayed, its head tilted down to look at Dean, though he was tucked under its chin, and Dean could feel the points of its claws pressing gently into the flat of his back. Dean felt steady on his good leg though, and was not quite comfortable half-buried in and at the mercy of the furry monstrosity that was still hugging him, so he cleared his throat a little.

“Uh, thanks, big guy. You can- yeah...” he stuttered out, patting it gingerly on what he supposed was its chest, trying to gesture for it to let him go. Thankfully, it seemed to understand, and it slowly withdrew its arm, settling back down onto all fours, sitting like a dog, its bright eyes fixed on Dean. As Dean stood, both feet on the ground but more of his weight concentrated on one, he could feel how he appeared to lean a little and to say he was irritated with the slow progress of his healing was a fairly large understatement. The creature contemplated him with its head cocked to one side and its eyes narrowed. 

“What?” Dean snapped accusingly. It came out automatically, like that skeptical expression it directed his way was one that had garnered that very response from Dean countless times before, only it was usually prompted by someone else. Somehow, like the creature knew or understood his stubbornness, it huffed out a breath and moved forward again and came to stand beside Dean. _Jesus_. Even on all fours as it was Dean only came up to its shoulder. Standing, it had to be at least eight, maybe ten feet tall. Dean just blinked at it and it huffed again, a little more rumbly, and shook the arm that was close enough to almost be pressed against him, leveling him with startlingly serious look. _Those friggin’ eyes_.

“Yeah, yeah, alright, fine,” Dean grumbled, fighting the impulse to throw his hands up only because it would probably send him toppling over. The beast’s point was easily taken, and Dean grudgingly dug his left hand into its fur. Once he had a solid grip he sighed, resigned, and leaned into its strong body. They started walking, Dean limping as usual, the creature a solid presence beside him, steadily watchful, looking down at Dean all the while. Dean tried not to resent it too much, because he _could_ get around on his own now, even it was awkward and a little achy a process, but he knew giving his leg rest when he could would only help, and he wasn’t about to _argue_ with a freakin’ monster. It was slow going, and when they got to the slightly open doors of the library the beast simply nudged them all the way open with its forehead with Dean still clinging and trying not to think too hard about his dependence on the imposing giant. They turned left in the hallway, back towards the stairs.

“Lemme guess,” Dean started. “Putting me back on bedrest, huh?” Dean gave the creature a look, one eyebrow going up high and putting creases into his forehead. The beast paused and blinked, then made an obvious display of looking down at Dean’s leg with concern. Dean sighed again, still not arguing.

“Yeah, I figured.” He said that quietly, under his breath as they continued, but he heard the huff the beast made in response. 

They made the rest of the journey in silence, with the exception of some groans and hisses on Dean’s part while going up the stairs his first time, because even being supported by both the creature on one side and the bannister on the other was tricky with a leg that didn’t want to bend much. He was feeling a bit dizzy and his head was swimming a little by the time they’d tackled the extensive staircase, and Dean wasn’t going to say it out loud but he was glad to be heading back to his bed, looking forward to slumping back against his pillows and ignoring the renewed pain in his leg with sleep.

The beast stood faithfully by and watched as Dean climbed awkwardly onto his bed, swinging his busted leg up with help from his hands, panting with the effort. Finally settled, Dean sighed deeply, closing his eyes and relaxing into the plush down pillows behind him, reveling in the relief it gave his aching limb. A moment passed and he hadn’t heard any shuffling from the beast, but then there was a depression in the mattress to his right and he peeked open an eye just enough to see. The beast had managed to sit on the floor beside him and was resting its massive head on the bed, its eyes on Dean, its tail swishing lazily behind it, and its ears folded back. 

Dean almost choked on the laugh that escaped. Between the big pleading eyes and its posture, it was so puppylike that Dean couldn’t help it. Its tail wagged more quickly in response and Dean lifted his hand to pet the top of its giant nose. It was about an inch away from Dean’s thigh, which was warm and feeling a little damp with the heat of the creature’s exhales. Dean couldn’t even bring himself to be too annoyed, not when it was giving him that face. 

“Thanks, buddy.” Dean whispered, really meaning it. He knew it heard him and he guessed somehow, like everything else, it seemed to understand. Dean fell asleep with his fingers still resting on its nose and he didn’t wake when it rose nor when it tucked him in before it left.


	11. Chapter Ten

Dean dreamed of Sam. He dreamed he was in the castle, and when he woke, the warm spot at his side which had been the beast’s head had been replaced by his brother. In the dream, Dean wasn’t surprised by this, it was more like they were on some fairytale vacation that Sam no doubt planned, because he always was a nerd like that (“ _But actual castles, Dean!_ ”). He curled more tightly around his brother, long and lean and warm, the curve of his ass snug in Dean’s lap and the sound of his steady, quiet breath like a hymn, full of hope and safety and promise. His brother was perfect, beautiful in ways Dean couldn’t describe but instead felt deep in his bones, and as Sam slept Dean nosed into his sleep-mussed hair, placing chaste, adoring kisses at the nape of his neck. He wasn’t trying for anything, just savouring the closeness, the scent, taste and feel of his brother, and he hummed against Sam’s skin as he felt him stir. Sam echoed the hum with one of his own.

“Dean,” he breathed, rolling back against him so that Dean moved, too, letting Sam wriggle and twist around so they were facing each other, heads on the same pillow. He looked at Dean with soft dimples, his eyes half-lidded and still hazy with sleep. 

“‘Morning, baby boy.” Dean whispered against his mouth, smiling because how could he not, before pressing them together in a kiss and licking playfully at the seam of his brother’s lips. He pulled back just a little, nuzzling their noses together, and he grinned at the way it made Sam squeeze his eyes shut and try to stifle a giggle. _God, his kid brother_. 

“Dean,” Sam whined, dragging it out, but it sounded more gleeful than annoyed. He shimmied a little closer, burying his head under Dean’s chin and tangling their legs together awkwardly because he was so freakin’ tall that there was no other way for them to fit together like this. Dean sighed and pretended to be put-out as Sam weaseled his way into a more comfortable position, because he was always going to play the part of the annoyed big brother, but in earnest he thrilled at it. He waited for the kid to settle before tangling one hand in his hair and letting the other rub at his back where it was draped across his waist. 

“Not ready to get up yet,” Sam mumbled against Dean’s neck, muffled but clear enough to make Dean chuckle and tip his head to kiss at the top of Sam’s, which earned him a squeeze and more happy sounds.

“Go back to sleep then, Sammy. We got all the time in the world.” 

Dean was more than happy to let his brother sleep, and join him to that end, all wrapped up in each other because he wouldn’t have it any other way.

When Dean opened his eyes to the gentle morning light painting the stone walls of his tiny castle room, the dream was still so fresh and clear and _real_. He clenched his hand on the sheet beside him where it lay in the empty space that was meant to be filled with Sam. The initial easy, good feeling of his reverie faded quickly as he took in his situation, and the feeling that replaced it was profound; Dean _ached_. Not his leg or his head, but in his bones, tight and hollow and constricting. The corners of his eyes were wet and his next breath was wrenched from him painfully, shaky and hard. 

“Dammit, Sam…” he sobbed, overwhelmed. Suddenly all he could think of was how, so far, this lead had gotten him _nothing_ , except injured and trapped in a fucking castle in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere, England, isolated even from his only real help in all this mess - Bobby - with an Apocalypse hanging over his head and no idea what to do next. He fought hard to get control of his breathing and sat up, sliding off the bed and wiping his eyes on the sleeves of his - _Sam’s_ \- hoodie, not sure what he was trying to do besides _not_ cry. His lack of answers quickly turned to frustration, which quickly turned to anger. He had an _angel_ send him here of all fucking things, and it still hadn’t gotten him any nearer to locating his missing brother. 

“Pretentious fuck,” Dean growled and braced himself on the post of the bed and went to stand. He didn’t know where he was going or for what purpose but he was riled up and not about to sit still another minute.

“Angel of the Lord, my ass!” He was yelling now, and he hoped the bastard could hear him. That meddling piece of crap didn’t know shit about his brother, couldn’t tell him anything, and dumped him in this cursed place with more questions than answers. Dean was desperate in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, the way he felt every time they had a lead, giving him hope again only to let him down. He wanted to step away from the bed, pace angrily, _anything_ to burn off some steam, but his leg protested, like it had a mind of its own and knew it wouldn’t handle the exertion well; so instead Dean remained beside the bed, quaking in anger and panting heavily. Then he cried out, slamming his open palm on the flat wood of the bedpost, and desperately wished he had something he could throw, something to break.

\---

Sam’s ears twitched as he jolted awake. Lately when he woke he’d been lazy, easily dropping out of Dean-filled dreams with his mostly human thoughts. That was not the case now. He heard a _bang_ and shouting coming from upstairs and it could only be his brother. He panicked. It flooded his system with adrenaline and instinct roared to life, and he was barreling through the library doors before he could even give it a second thought. He practically slammed into the door of Dean’s room in his haste to get to him, fumbling with the doorknob because his panic made it tricky to maneuver his paws so precisely. He had to take a slow breath and force himself to focus, and when the door clicked open he ducked through the frame, panting as he stopped to take in the sight. 

Dean wasn’t shouting anymore. He was on his knee in a defeated-looking heap on the floor, his bad leg splayed out awkwardly in front of him as if he had simply crumbled there. His hands held his face so Sam couldn’t see it, but he could tell his brother was crying by the way his upper body shook, and he could hear the tiny, quick breaths and sniffles even though they were muffled by his palms. It took Sam a minute to let himself move. His heart was breaking; he hated to see his brother like this, and he knew that this was just a glimpse into the hell Dean must’ve been living in for however long they’ve been apart. He couldn’t - or wouldn’t - let himself guess how long based on Dean’s appearance, because - injury notwithstanding - Dean had looked better. He looked worn out, weary, and rougher than Sam remembered. Dean had always been a hero to Sam, fighting with Dad and doing everything to keep them safe, lightning quick on his feet and deadly with a firearm, but apart from hunting, Sam’s memories of his brother were warm, soft, and safe; he lived in his brother’s shadow, tucked under his arm or trailing half a step behind, and Sam wanted to comfort his brother, tell him everything was going to be okay the way Dean always had for him, but in this body, he was at a loss. 

He knew Dean knew he was there, he had seen him jump when the door flew open, and he knew his breathing was hardly silent. He dropped back to all fours and padded carefully toward his brother, all the panic gone now replaced only by all kinds of longing. As he approached he felt the creature stir inside, possibly wanting all the same things, its interpretation of Dean seen through the veil of Sam’s memories and affection, and Sam eased up on the control, trusting a little, because if his instincts were anything like the puppy-urges he felt earlier, he figured it couldn’t hurt. He was nudging at Dean before he knew it, his head gently nuzzling against his brother’s, and he heard Dean gasp a little in surprise but he didn’t move away. Sam wasn’t sure if it was a testament to how broken his brother might be or simply a matter of playing along with the giant teeth-toting and claw-wielding animal that he was stuck with, but after a moment of stillness Dean relaxed into him. Sam crowded the space behind and beside him so he could lean back, and Dean let Sam push at his head and paw at him a little. 

It didn’t take long until Dean’s sniffles were gone and instead he was kind of laughing, though clearly despite his best effort, and he was squirming under the attention. It made Sam lighthearted and happy. The beast was playful again and Sam gave in, enjoying how pleasing Dean made him feel. He was batting at Dean a little more in earnest, and Dean’s arms started to come up and get into it when Sam grinned - whatever that might look like he hadn’t the first idea, but he knew how it _felt_ \- his tongue slipped out of his mouth, long and flat and pink, and licked up the side of Dean’s face.

“Ugh!” Dean exclaimed, and as much as Sam froze on the inside with panic, his brother didn’t sound mad. He was still laughing, but he was cringing too, and he lifted his arm to wipe the slobber on his sleeve. Sam leaned back a little just to be safe. _So much for harmless instincts_. Though it was harmless, he supposed, especially because Dean didn’t realize who he was anyway. He fought the strong impulse to do it again.

“Dude,” Dean was still sputtering. “Maybe, lay off with the tongue, okay? Kinda gross.”

All Sam could do was sit and try to smile back at him, hearing the swish of his tail as it wagged excitedly behind him, because Dean telling him _no_ made it that much harder to resist. Apparently, some things never changed, and Sam felt like Dean’s little brother again despite his current predicament.

Dean just looked at him then shook his head, running a hand back through his hair and sighing as he twisted to grab at the closest bed post and haul himself up.

“This is ridiculous.” He started, sounding a little exasperated. “I’ve got a busted fucking leg and I’m stuck in a castle with a giant bear-puppy with no cell reception and not much else to go on.” 

He huffed out a laugh, gesturing behind himself in Sam’s direction as he yammered on. Sam could tell he would be pacing if he could, could sense his nervous energy, but instead Dean was stuck fidgeting where he leaned against the bed. Sam whined a little when Dean stopped speaking, trying to sound sympathetic. He really wasn’t sure it sounded like much of anything, besides a bit small for something his size. But Dean turned to look over at him, clearly contemplating.

“You… you understand me, don’t you?” He asked quietly, tone wary like he already knew the answer but was anxious about it anyway. Sam wondered if a part of his brother recognized him, and he was just too stubborn to want to see it. He’d get there eventually, Sam was sure.

Either way, Sam nodded deliberately in response to Dean’s question. He watched Dean intently as he nodded, too, swallowing thickly. He seemed to let it sink in a minute, taking in Sam’s form, his still wagging tail, and running his hand through his hair again and letting it linger, scratching at his head. 

“Listen,” he started tentatively. Sam cocked his head, felt his ears perk up on their own, and the swishing of his tail increase excitedly. Dean continued.

“I’m… looking for someone. Is there… anyone else here but you?” 

Sam’s excitement dwindled. His tail slowed to a stop and he waited a moment before shaking his head. He knew it wasn’t the answer his brother was looking for. He wondered how long it would take for Dean to ask him the _right_ questions. 

At his response, Dean sagged. Sam could sense his disappointment, the way his anticipation gave way to sadness, the flares of the earlier anger simmering underneath but buried under stronger emotions that made Sam whimper a little in a show of sympathy. It was beyond strange interpreting his brother this way; he got the same verbal and visual cues as always, but his sense of smell enhanced everything, sharing details and layers of his brother’s emotional palette in ways a human couldn’t perceive. He could _feel_ how Dean longed for him, and that was the right word; it was different, stronger than just being missed. It made him jittery. 

Dean was quiet for a while. Sam knew he was mulling over a million different things: different questions he could ask, questions he definitely _should_ ask, and questions he was no doubt avoiding, because the truth was maybe more than Dean was ready for. Sam was going to have to coax him to it, help him get there on his own. He didn’t give his brother much longer to stew, instead he started nudging at him again, insistent.

“What?” Dean looked up at Sam with a small smile, not irritated but sincere. Sam cocked his head towards the door a few times and Dean looked thoughtful. “You… want me to go with you?” 

Sam grinned again, his tongue flopping out of his mouth as he nodded excitedly. Dean was smart, always a good guesser. Being successful even at that small communication made Sam happy, and even the beast seemed pleased, always easy to read that way in the tell-tale swish of its tail. Dean sunk a hand into the fur of the shoulder closest to him. 

“Well, alright then. Lead the way, fuzzball.”

Dean leaned on him a lot less this time, Sam noticed, but surprisingly he didn’t release his hold. Walking down the stairs was also decidedly easier than going up and Sam padded alongside his brother in time, content to see that he struggled less than he had before. It was a good thing, too, because Sam wanted to get him out of the castle. He saw how frustrated his brother was, and he both felt and understood how being stuck, mostly in his room, only added to his brother’s desperation, must make him feel trapped. Sam thought it might be good to get him outside to wander the grounds. While Sam had been trapped there, often scared and unsure, the roses were beautiful and smelled heavenly, and the sky and the stars were calming. Sam had looked up at them often and tried to hold on to the times he remembered looking up at them with his shoulder against Dean’s while they sat back on the hood of the Impala, and now that Dean was here, maybe looking skyward would help calm and ground him, too. It wouldn’t be long until sundown and the fresh air might do them both good. Sam paused when they were standing in front of the doors that opened to the courtyard and looked down at his brother.

“Outside, huh?” Dean let him go as he said it, more a statement than a question. The doors were not magnificent like the large ones of the main entrance, but they were still adorned with smaller, less grand stained glass on either side, so Dean knew they weren’t doors to another room. Sam inhaled deeply, tried to get a read on his brother; he came across as resigned, maybe a little sad still, but not angry or overwhelmed like we was when Sam found him in his room. He was going to count it as a win. 

Dean easily opened the doors for them so Sam wouldn’t have to struggle with it, and he limped alongside him into the open courtyard. Dean took a deep breath and Sam just gave him a little space, watching, listening. As they stepped away from the doors Sam could hardly take his eyes off his brother. Dean was moving leisurely, easy on his leg and simply taking in the size and grandeur of the castle, his eyes sweeping over the roses along its walls, all the intricate, artful windows and the details in all the stone. He whistled low, impressed.

“This place is really something. Not much like it back where I’m from.” He said it aloud so despite the fact that he wasn’t looking at Sam, Sam supposed it was still for him. It made his ears twitch with interest and his tail wag all the more. They kept walking, slowly, and Sam noticed Dean had brought his hands up to tuck them into the pocket at the front of his hoodie; he was shivering. Sam hadn’t really noted the temperature, his body and fur designed to self-regulate and always kept him comfortable. His brow furrowed in concern and he was about to move closer to his brother when all of a sudden it started to snow. 

Sam blinked as a few large, fluffy flakes landed on his nose, and then instinct flicked his tongue out to swipe them up. Dean had stopped walking and was looking up at the grey sky, squinting into the flurries that seemed to be coming down heavier and fluffier with each passing second. There was no wind, so the large chunks of snow seemed to drift down easy and if Sam had been watching he would’ve seen Dean shake his head in disbelief. Instead, the new snow seemed to make him feel like he did when Dean first approached him in front of his fireplace: like a puppy. But Dean was there, too, so Sam was still thinking like Sam, even if the beast was bubbling up with youthful, animal excitement, and he wasn’t sure about letting instinct have a go - especially not after last time, which ended in licking at Dean’s face - but then he saw how Dean was looking at him. Dean had a wide grin on his face and his eyes crinkled a little at the sides with it, like he could see right through Sam’s control of the beast to the way he just wanted to _play_. So he did. 

Sam eased up and the next thing he knew he was snapping his mouth open and shut, letting the big flakes catch on his tongue. He was standing up on his back legs to get tall as if he had to get to them sooner, even though there were flakes dropping all around. Dean’s eyes were wide as he took in the standing sight of him but he didn’t step back; Sam admired his brother’s bravery, but he felt his momentary unease so he coaxed the beast back onto its fours. In a blink Sam was moving forward, chasing the snowflakes with his mouth, getting low to the ground and wiggling his backside before pouncing after them as they fell. He could hear Dean laughing at him and it only spurred him on. The snow was falling so heavy it was thick and reduced visibility but Sam’s sharp eyes and animal senses meant he always knew exactly where Dean was, even as he bounded about in the rapidly collecting snow, nuzzling his face into the disappearing grass to lick up mouthfuls of it.

“Hey!” His brother called to him and instantly looked up from where he was rolling around in the cool substance, righting himself and letting his eyes find Dean through the snowy curtains. He had to look over the pile of snow that was on his nose and he blinked before licking it off. Dean opened his mouth to say something but watching Sam with the snow made him double over on another laugh before he straightened up and tossed a snowball right at him. On instinct, Sam pounced and chomped it in mid air, the ball exploding and sending snow in a puff around his face, clinging to his fur and refreshing in his mouth. 

“Nice catch!” Dean was still laughing. Sam was exhilarated. His animal side was having fun, ever the playful pup, but Sam was happy, too. He was interacting with his brother and Dean was smiling like he used to, and Sam felt like it could’ve been any of the times they’d tossed snow at each other before, giant furry body notwithstanding. Dean threw another and Sam was ready, bouncing up to catch it. Dean didn’t move fast, careful not to fall over when he carefully bent down to scoop up the snow with his bare hands, but Sam was full of energy and moved about him, leaping for the snow and occasionally shaking like a wet dog to get it out of his eyes when there was too much there. He lost track of how long Dean threw snow at him, but by the time his brother stopped, panting and smiling and coming towards him empty handed, it was dark out. Dean’s hair and hoodie were wet with melted snow and even though Sam didn’t see in colour he could tell his brother’s face was flush and he was shuddering visibly. Sam knew now he must be feeling the cold very deeply. Sam tossed himself to the ground and rolled in the snow one last time, and he paused and looked up at his brother from his back. Dean smiled down at him and slid a hand along his flank, patting his side. Sam thrilled at the touch a little more than he expected; he told himself that was all animal.

“C’mon,” Dean chattered out through his teeth. “Let’s get back inside.”

Sam followed him in and shook at the threshold to rid himself of at least some of the snow that clung to him everywhere. He saw that Dean was leaving wet footprints as they made their way down the hall and wondered at how much extra clothing his brother had with him. Sam steered Dean into the library when they approached it and nudged him to sit in front of the hearth. The fire had died down and was burning low, but Sam moved quickly to add new chunks of wood and it quickly roared back to life. Sam turned around and was glad to see Dean hadn’t needed additional prompting, because without words Sam wasn’t sure how he would’ve made himself clear. As it was, Dean had kicked off his boots and peeled off his wet socks and laid them close to the fire to dry. He stripped out of his wet sweatshirt and did the same, sitting back in his only mildly damp t-shirt with his bare feet straight out in front of him to warm by the fire. He kept himself upright with his hands stretched out behind him, and Sam wanted to curl up behind him to help fend off the cold but as he took one tentative step in that direction his brother’s stomach rumbled - _loudly_. Dean caught his eyes.

“I uh… I ate what was upstairs.” He said quietly, like he wasn’t sure how to tell Sam that he was hungry. Sam nodded and hoped Dean understood. He turned away and made for outside.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Dean watched the beast leave somehow knowing that it was going to get him food. It felt strange to ask for it but he couldn’t deny that he was feeling a bit hollow. He was also freezing, though that was getting better with the ample heat from the fire. He had thoroughly enjoyed turning off his brain and tossing snow outside the gigantor puppy he was following around. It had been fun and for a short while Dean was surprisingly carefree. It did make him miss Sam - really, what didn’t - because it was so much something they would have done if he’d been there. His leg had held up okay but he was glad to be sitting and resting now, if not just for that but also because he hadn’t exactly thought it through when they lingered outside and his clothes got soaked from the melting snow. Dean had already stripped down considerably but his jeans were definitely uncomfortably wet, so he sighed and wriggled out of those too and set them near his boots and socks, leaving him in his black t-shirt and black boxer briefs, which, mercifully, were mostly dry. He sat as close to the fire as he dared, the heat coming off it almost too much too close, and he tried not to think. He reminded himself there was little he could do at this exact moment in his current situation, so there was no point dwelling on where he was going to go from here, or on the fact that as he sat there alone in a gorgeous old library in front of a fire all he wanted was to share it with his brother. 

It wasn’t too long before Dean heard the sounds of the beast trudging towards the library. Dean had brought his knees up and had his head rested on his forearms, drifting a little, but the noise caught his attention and he turned in time to see him come in. Snow clung obstinately to its fur despite the way it shook itself for what was likely not the first time at the threshold of the library. It stalked in on all fours with what appeared to be two dead rabbits clenched tightly in its jaw, blood dripping a little onto the stone floor as it approached. As it got closer Dean instinctively moved away, pressing back into the stone alongside the hearth, his eyes wide. He could see the creature’s large teeth where they pierced the small animal’s flesh, the point out of which leaked the blood, but that wasn’t the most disconcerting. Seeing its eyes in the firelight, they looked different. Darker, wilder, so much less of the familiarity Dean had felt in them before. It made him wary. The creature panted around its mouthful, the sound rumbly and a little aggressive. When it came to stop in front of the fire, in front of Dean, he felt its gaze rest on him. It blinked and for a moment it looked conflicted, its eyes narrowed but its head cocked at Dean like it was trying to understand something even though Dean wasn’t speaking. He swallowed thickly and decided to try.

“You got those for us?” He asked, using the wall behind him to help him stand up. “Thank you. You… you’ve been taking care of me this whole time, I know. So, thanks.” Dean was easing his way closer, speaking with a voice that he hoped carried his sincerity. The beast eyed him warily and shook somewhat at his approach, but its ears seemed trained to the sound of his voice and by the time Dean placed his hand open on the top its nose, the beast had relaxed where it sat. It dropped the rabbits at Dean’s feet and licked its mouth, the traces of blood wiped away by that giant tongue, and when it looked back up at Dean its eyes were no longer dark and wild but warm and familiar again. Looking at them now, those big bright orbs and all the colours there, shining at him, Dean knew. He did. Low in his gut he understood but he was terrified to acknowledge it and everything it might mean. He felt a subtle wave of nausea roll through him and he was trembling as he patted the beast on the nose and quickly averted his gaze, leaning down to collect the coneys by the ears and then go dig in his pants for his knife. 

He could sense the beast watching him as he worked, skinning their dinner and fixing it to the rod for the spit that he’d noticed propped up against the wall on the far side. He paused when it was ready to be put over the fire, not sure how he was going to reach without burning himself except that he never had to try. The beast padded up next to him and took it in one massive paw, standing tall and reaching over the flames unflinching to slide the rod into place. His clothes weren’t quite dry and the fire kept him warm so he paced, still limping but managing, as the rabbits cooked and the beast returned to sit, its head on its paws and its eyes on Dean. Every time Dean spared him a glance, its tail would flick just the once and its ears would press back under his attention. Dean would sigh and look away, resuming his pacing. He had the creature turn the rod on the spit the once, just to make sure everything was evenly cooked, and when it was ready the beast took them down and Dean used his knife to cut the meat away. It was oddly calming despite how unsettled Dean was, his insides wrestling to make him give in. He’d take a bite and then cut away the next for the beast and he would eat it carefully from his fingers, same as any dog. It made Dean’s chest ache a little because he knew the beast could’ve eaten the rabbit raw, could’ve eaten it cooked all in one piece, but instead, like this, the bunnies were Dean’s and he was the master here; he was sharing with his canine-like companion who watched him with patience and happily took only what it was given. All it did was make it harder for Dean to ignore everything warring inside him.

They ate in silence. When the meat was gone he tossed the rest into the fire and went to check his clothes again. His pants were mostly dry, his sweatshirt close behind, but his boots would need a while yet. He sighed. He was comfortable by the fire and his leg was feeling tight and worn out. He was tired and had little interest in dragging himself back upstairs to his fireless bedroom in socked feet that would be chilled on the cold stone floors of the hallways. He had a sneaking suspicion that the beast wouldn’t mind his company. He was turning away from the fire to find a place to get comfortable and something caught his eye. In the shadow on the other side of the hearth there was something crumpled on the floor. Thinking it might be a blanket he could use as a pillow Dean limped over and he heard the beast sit up behind him. As he leaned over to grab it out of the dark he looked back at the creature over his shoulder and it had moved closer and sat anxiously, its paws kneading the ground, ears erect and tail shaking more than wagging. 

“What?” Dean was kind of laughing but it died in his throat as his hand clasped on something unmistakeable: his leather jacket. He froze and saw that the beast did, too. Dean let his eyes close as he stood up, pulling the jacket up with him. Not lost then. Stolen, or more accurately, borrowed. Borrowed by a beast. Because- well, there was no way around it now. A part of Dean always knew, he was sure of it as he stood there, clutching the jacket to his body. When he opened his eyes to look at the beast again he was shaking and not sure he knew how to take in his next breath. The beast had gotten low to the ground, tucking its tail and ears, looking scared and submissive, knowing it had been caught. Dean was all messed up, equal parts relieved and terrified. He swallowed hard and forced himself to take a step forward, the beast’s bright eyes watching his every move. He took another and found his voice, though it was quiet and rough, wrecked as he tried to hold everything at bay.

“Sammy?”

Sam whimpered and it was a pitiful sound, something broken and desperate. He sat up quickly and pressed his nose into Dean’s outstretched hand, nodding his big head and jostling Dean’s arm with the movement. His tail was thumping the floor in earnest and he whined again.

“ _Shit_ , S-Sammy,” Dean dropped his jacket and threw himself at his brother, burying his face in his fur and digging his hands in, holding on tight because now that Sam was here Dean was _never_ going to let him go. He cried against his brother’s plush body and Sam whined in his ear, his ginormous head over Dean’s shoulder and pressing him close. For the first time since the abduction Dean had lost track of the days but over two and half years later Dean had finally found his brother; he was currently hairier, taller, and toothier than Dean had expected, but he could work with that - would - work with that. All that mattered in this moment was that his search was over; the warm, living, breathing thing that he was currently clinging to and crying on, unashamed, was _his brother_. He couldn’t bring himself to care about anything else.

Dean didn’t know how long they were like that, Sam trapping Dean against him with his head and his paw, but at some point they shifted and Dean had slid to the floor and Sam had laid down in front of him. Dean wasn’t going anywhere tonight. He wasn’t going to let Sam out of his sight. Eventually they moved again, Dean wasn’t crying any more, and they settled in. Sam curled around his brother’s back, letting him lean on the soft, warm, solid bulk of him, the firelight warm and bright before them. Dean breathed a little easier than he had in years and he absentmindedly pet at Sam, running his hands through his fur as they sat together. A hundred, a thousand things were running through his mind, things he wanted to tell Sam, but he knew while his brother understood it wasn’t like they could _really_ talk. A lot of what Dean wanted - needed - to say, he needed to be able to say when Sam was human again. Dean was tired; his body was achy but lithe, like everything had gone out of him while he let his tears dampen Sam’s fur, and he could feel it wouldn’t be long before he passed out, wrapped up next to Sam for the first time in way, way too damn long. 

“Sammy, I don’t know what’s going on here yet, but… I’m going to get you out of this. I’ve been looking for you all this time, I’m not gonna stop now. I promise you, we’re gonna be okay.” He looked right into his brothers perfect hazel eyes as he said it, firm and meaningful but soft with truth. Sam blinked back at him and made a small sound in his throat. Dean felt it when his tail wagged, the muscles in his body shifting behind where Dean was leaning on him. Dean could see it in his eyes: after all this time, Sam still trusted him. It made him feel warm and heavy. He smiled at Sam and rubbed his nose, moved his hand up to scratch behind his ears. The tail wagging picked up and Sam was making a soft rumble in his chest, almost like a purr. 

“Like that, Sam?” Dean laughed. He tried not to think about the oddness of it all. Sam was obviously at least in part affected by his transformation, but he’d been taking care of Dean this whole time as best he could. The least he could was pet the kid a little. Except when he thought about it like that, it sent a shiver unbidden down his spine, and he cleared his throat and took his hand back. 

Dean decided to lie down fully, stretched out alongside Sam where he kept him warm on the side opposite the fire, and he didn’t hesitate to use Sam’s arm as a pillow, since Sam was so big that even curled around Dean pretty well fit there, like a baby spoon next to a freakin’ ladle. Sam let out a content breath as Dean settled, and despite his earlier thought Dean let his hand wander to Sam’s arm and his fingers draw along his skin, just like he did that night before Sam’s eighteenth birthday when they huddled together in a cold motel room. He was starting to doze when his fingers swept over something distinct on Sam’s skin, something raised up. He followed it with the tip of his finger and something was definitely there. He forced himself onto his stomach, propped up on his elbows as he started combing through the fur. Sam didn’t move, letting him look, but watched him with a sideways glance.

Dean finally parted it in the right place to see it. Plain as day on Sam’s left forearm was a blood red mark in the shape of a rose. A line of worry creased Dean’s brow; unless Sam’s beast self had somehow decided flowery tattoos were his thing, the markings on his brother’s arm were probably connected to the whole apocalypse mess that the angel had been rambling about before he’d zapped Dean to the middle of sheep-filled countryside. Dean didn’t like the implications of that one bit, but he admitted reluctantly that in order to make Sam human again and lift whatever magic trapped him in the monstrous form, it was as good a place as any to start looking for information. But to do that, they’d need outside help. They’d need Bobby, and, as much as Dean was loathe to even consider it, they’d probably need Castiel, too, though Dean still didn’t trust him in the slightest. He sighed heavily and burrowed deeper into his brother’s warm, furry ( _temporarily_ , Dean vowed fervently) side, casting off any further thoughts of apocalyptic doom and transformation spells and untrustworthy angels. Those were worries to be dealt with tomorrow. Until then, Dean drifted off into a peaceful sleep, contentedly reunited with his brother - _finally_ \- and by his side again for the first time in nearly three long, long years.


	13. Chapter Twelve

After unsurprisingly failed attempts to reach Dean on the phone, Eric managed to talk Bobby into sticking around to finish researching before charging up the mountain half-cocked. Even if he did find Dean there, Eric reasoned, Bobby would be no help to him with only half the information. If Dean could’ve come back, he would’ve by now, so Bobby should have all his metaphorical ducks in a row before trying anything. Bobby agreed, though he made a show of being grumpy about it. Eric wondered with a hidden smirk if Bobby was usually the one doing that for Dean, because if so he might’ve been extra resentful of Eric considering, priest or not, he was a couple decades younger at least. 

They worked at translating the book for the better part of three days. Bobby didn’t sleep much, and even then only at Eric’s insistence. Eric pretended not to be surprised at how quickly Bobby was making it through the booze he brought, either. He was a gracious, accommodating host who was all too ready to help and he was damned good with Latin, so for all that, Bobby was grateful. What Bobby wasn’t grateful for was where their translating seemed to be getting them, and how he had to divulge the rest of what he knew to Eric in the process. Bobby’s heart broke at the way the young priest looked at him when he finally mentioned angels and, eventually, yes, even the Apocalypse. He let Fr. Eric sit a moment to digest that bit, sagging back into his armchair and blinking as he started past Bobby as he tried to process it. When Bobby next dropped the bomb about the boys’ roles in it all, Eric’s eyes had gone wide and he’d fallen back to the translating with renewed fervor. Bobby laid a reassuring hand on the young man’s back before going to fetch more water for still more tea. Bobby had grown fond of Eric very quickly and appreciated the way his faith was strong and yet he was so open minded. In another time, perhaps, Bobby could’ve seen him as a hunter, too.

Bobby let Eric take point on the new tome while he fell back to some of the references he’d brought with him from home. They sat in companionable silence for the most part, each taking turns refilling the kettle (Bobby flavoured his tea with splashes of Hunter’s Helper), occasionally speaking to ask for input on translation or deciphering particularly vague or quizzically worded passages, making notes as necessary. They’d both lost track of time after they paused for dinner only to get right back to it, and it was into the wee hours of the morning when Eric sat back, rubbing his eyes and sighing dejectedly.

“Still nothin’?” Bobby inquired sympathetically, taking the moment to rub at his aching neck and sip his mostly cool now tea-whiskey combo. 

“The opposite, actually.” Eric stated plainly, his expression grim. Bobby’s stomach sank. He sighed.

“Give it to me straight, then.”

“The good news is there does appear to be a way to break the curse.” He paused, wary.

“And the bad news?” Bobby prompted.

“The bad news is pretty much everything else.” Eric sighed. “So, best as I can tell, the scribe of God was instructed to create a final failsafe against the Devil’s coming. If he couldn’t be kept in the cage, he would at least be without the vessel he needs in order to do battle with Michael on the chosen field. The blade is actually pictured here.” Eric turned the book to Bobby and pointed to the illustration. Bobby scrutinized the image keenly, not having ever seen anything quite like it. 

“The blade can be used to-” Eric began again but stopped just as quick, the lights of his cottage flickering and sending the seasoned hunter in front of him to his feet. Eric jumped up as well, following his lead and trying not to panic at the way Bobby seemed to be at the ready. A _whoosh_ filled the room, the sound loud and immediate, and Eric blinked. When he opened his eyes next, a strange man in a trenchcoat was standing in the living room.

“Ah!” He started, tripping back and landing in his chair.

“Castiel, goddammit,” Bobby growled, shooting the newcomer an angry glare.

“C-Castiel?” Eric stuttered. “T-the angel?”

Castiel looked first at Bobby, seemingly confused by his hostile tone, and then to Eric, who was still wearing his collar despite the late hour and blinking back at him with a face somewhere between awed and frightened.

“Do not be afraid,” Castiel spoke calmly, using a welcome he knew would be familiar. “Father, you do well in your service of Heaven, and now, as you aid the Winchester boys.”

Eric let out a breath and his cheeks flushed a little. He seemed to sink further into his chair as he relaxed, though he couldn’t take his eyes off of Castiel.

“Uh huh.’ Cause a fat lot of you good you’re doing ‘em.” Bobby grumbled and both the angel and priest turned to him quickly. 

“I do not understand your contempt.” Castiel narrowed his eyes at the hunter. “I am helping. I sent Dean here, as close to Blencathra as I could see to do, so that he might discover Sam. I have been fighting with my brothers and sisters to protect the seals but there are so many and we cannot anticipate which they will attempt. Despite our best efforts, the seals are being broken at an alarming rate. We must move quickly. Where is Dean? He, too, is hidden from me. It is… disconcerting.” 

“You’re damn right it is,” Bobby snapped back, still irritated. He lifted his ball cap and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’ve got some catching up to do, Feathers.” 

Castiel stood unmoving as Bobby took his seat again. He listened quietly as Bobby sipped his drink - straight whiskey now - and told him what they found in the Church and what they’d learned so far, before Castiel had so rudely interrupted them.

“So Sam must be the beast.” Castiel parroted, thoughtful, when Bobby stopped speaking.

“You think? Idjit…” He grumbled back, not quite under his breath. Eric simply watched the whole exchange in a mild state of awe, marveling at the celestial being in his living room and possibly even more so at the flippant way in which Bobby dealt with him.

“And no doubt he is somehow bound to that damned castle, and if he hasn’t had Dean for lunch yet then hopefully Dean hasn’t already tried to kill him.” Bobby sounded dejected, like he knew in all likelihood Dean would shoot first and ask questions later. Castiel opened his mouth to speak but Eric jumped in.

“Actually, it says here that nothing but the blade can kill the beast.” 

“Great,” Bobby chuffed.

“What blade?” Castiel asked at the same time.

“This, here,” Eric showed him the book. He contemplated it a moment.

“This is a modified angel blade,” he stated simply, as though that was common knowledge. “I’m certain I’ve seen this before.”

“Well, that might actually be good news.” Eric continued. “We’re going to need it to break the curse.”

“By killing Sam?” Castiel asked, though he didn’t sound hesitant. Bobby looked about ready to get riled up again so Eric cut them both off.

“Hopefully not, though, in all honesty I’m not 100% sure. As I was saying before you arrived, the blade is the only thing that will kill the beast. I believe that is its primary function. However,” he bowed down over his notes. “It states plainly that ‘if the blade can be used to sacrifice the blood of the archangel’s vessel, drowning the… embodiment?’ I’m sorry, the translation is difficult. Drowning the, uh, ‘embodiment completely, then the curse will be broken.’” 

“Great,” Bobby muttered into his hand as it dragged down his face. “None of this is reassuring. Sounds like I’m gonna lose me another Winchester, is what it sounds like.” 

A quiet silence filled the space between them and Bobby knew it was because they couldn’t exactly argue with him. So much for curse breaking. It still sounded like a vessel was going to wind up dead. Only plus side he could see was averting the Apocalypse, which might’ve been the end goal but those boys were still Bobby’s, and it still hurt. And of course it would be Dean, Bobby knew it deep down. He’d never seen anybody love anyone the way that kid loved his little brother; there was no way Dean would let Sam die if he there was anything he could do about it. Bobby swallowed hard and tried not to think about it. 

“It might take me some time, but I can track down the blade. Angels keep a very close eye on heavenly weapons. Someone will know where it is. From here I can locate the castle and deliver our news to Dean. But that still leaves us with the question of this ‘embodiment’,” Castiel finally spoke. Bobby scratched at his beard.

“Well, what if… the translation is tricky, I’m not sure what else it would be called,” Eric started. “But with witchcraft and other old world rituals, wouldn’t the magic be tied to a specific object? Enchanted or otherwise imbued with the power of the spell or curse?”

Bobby blinked at him in surprise. He wasn’t about to ask how the priest knew that but he couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him first.

“You’re right! Even like a hex bag, of sorts. All kinds of spells are bound to objects like that, for protection, sometimes to simply house the overflow if we’re talking big, dark magic. This is certainly that.” Bobby was standing now, excited and hopeful despite himself. He looked around the room at the mess of their study, dried roses in a pile on the table and the carving of the rose in the leather binding of the book. “What do you wanna bet this enchanted object is a rose?” 

\---

Sam hummed happily as he woke to the shifting of his brother’s body where it was tucked up along his side; the sound was a low rumble in his ears, rough in the beast’s throat. They hadn’t moved much during the night that Sam could tell. He was still curled up like always except that his one paw had reached over to protectively hug Dean to him as he slept, and internally he grimaced; he would’ve worried the beast might’ve crushed his brother, so small by comparison, but he must’ve been careful even in his less conscious state, because Dean seemed to be fine. His big brother slept heavily, undisturbed by Sam’s subtle movements at his waking, the gentle puffs of Dean’s breath still in a rhythm of deep sleep, warm in the fur where his face was buried. Sam settled again, awake, and breathed deeply all the things that his animal nose could tell him, his sharp ears open and tuned only to Dean, the rush of air in and out of his lungs loud, the steady thumping of his heart a gentle echo of Sam’s own. It gave Sam a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in as long as he’d been trapped in this body, away from everything he knew and loved. He was in no rush to wake his brother, content instead to float here where everything was calm, letting Dean rest for whatever he might decide they needed to do next. 

Sam found himself amused that the beast’s heightened senses let him read his brother so easily, even in sleep. While Dean’s slumber rendered him uncomplicated and straightforward, Sam could tell by his _smell_ when he was dreaming. Much like the telltale twitches and whimpers of a dog that dreams of the chase, Dean’s body reacted to whatever was playing out in his mind and Sam could interpret the subtle inflections, in turns happy, pleased, protective, at ease. Sam marveled a little at how intimate it felt to know that his brother was having good dreams and he might’ve worried about the intrusion but it wasn’t like he could turn off his nose, and on some level he thought it felt fair. Growing up he had been incapable of hiding anything from his big brother, somehow always transparent under the scrutiny of his emerald eyes. Regardless, there was nothing he could do about it for the time being, so while his brother slept on, Sam enjoyed their closeness.

Dean made small sounds in his sleep, twisting a little and rolling into Sam’s side. Sam absentmindedly let his mind wander to what Dean might be dreaming of, if maybe he was cruising down some back country road in the Impala, and he was hit with a pang of longing. That car was the closest thing they had to a home, and Sam wanted to be back inside the solid metal frame on the familiar vinyl bench seats. He frowned inwardly at the thought that, as he was now, he would never fit in even so spacious a vehicle as her, his giant form almost too big for the castle’s large doorways much less the ‘67 Chevy. Then he smelled it; Dean’s dream must’ve taken a turn, because what was only subtly present and interwoven with everything suddenly overwhelmed the rest and a barrage of strong scents hit the air. Sam’s stomach tightened in a response that startled him. Sam’s ears perked up and his body was buzzing as his nose sniffed on its own accord. He was well aware, not-so-distantly that the jittery feeling was one he had felt before in his brother’s presence since they had been reunited. The beast had been interpreting Dean with the information it collected on its own, mingled and mixed up with all the memories and feelings Sam already had for his brother. He hadn’t been able to decipher what his body was trying to tell him before but suddenly it was clear: like an old radio signal bogged down by interference, Dean was giving off freakin’ pheromones and they were all the boost needed for Sam to get better reception. He hadn’t realized he’d started panting by the time the beast brain was focused and, instead of looking at Dean and the creature singing the familiar recognition of _brother-brother-brother_ , it was replaced unmistakably by _mate-mate-mate_. 

As the understanding echoed in his ears, sending ripples across his body, Sam startled and forced his human instinct to override. He didn’t even want to _know_ what the beast would do if left unrestrained in the presence of this new - yet still, somehow, disconcertingly familiar - set of signals, this nearly irresistible _pull_ towards his older brother. He scrambled to get away, forcing himself upright sharply. His panic to distance himself made his movement fast and big, and as he jumped back from his brother, Dean got knocked aside, rolling over onto his back with a groan.

“Sam… Sam?!” Dean said it first a little dazed and then snapped awake, fully alert and surprised, his body taut with alarm as he sat up and looked to Sam where he had stopped some ten feet away. Sam was still panting as he looked at his brother, his animal eyes roaming over him and, even at that distance, didn’t miss the way Dean’s skin - _which was everywhere, why wasn’t he dressed, dammit_ \- pebbled up with goosebumps in the absence of Sam’s warm body to blanket him. Sam was wrestling the beast for control but managed to get himself seated so he looked less anxious, trying not to frighten his brother. 

Dean narrowed his eyes and contemplated him a moment. Sam wondered how must look to him right now, how ridiculous, how animalistic and wild. Moments like this, he felt like the monster. Dean took a tentative step toward him, stretching out his arm. Sam shook where he sat and whined, low and long, half protestant, half desperate. 

“Sammy, hey, it- it’s okay. It’s me, buddy. Remember?” He had paused at the sound Sam made but stepped a little closer as he spoke. Sam whimpered again. Dean didn’t understand, of course he didn’t, how could he? Sam was just having a life-altering emotional crisis brought on by heightened senses and demanding animal instincts that he couldn’t pretend weren’t fueled by his own messed up brain, but hey - what was one more thing to throw on the pile of ridiculous shit he had to deal with right now? He was fighting the panic as Dean closed in on him, not knowing if he should run or stay put, but in the end his desire to be with Dean won out, as it always did, and Sam remained fixed where he was, eyes trained on his brother’s outstretched palm as it came to rest on the side of his face.

“Hey, kiddo. Did you get a little spooked?” He pet gently at Sam’s nose as he spoke, soothing in his tone and use of the old nickname. His eyes were searching Sam’s. Sam was pleasantly surprised by the touch; while his brain and his body had been going a million miles a minute only seconds before, Dean’s hands on him seemed to put everything on pause. Sam took a deep breath and when it huffed out, ruffling his brother’s hair, all the tension vanished and Sam was calm again. _Thank God_. He was promptly going to file that episode away under _Later-Maybe-Never_ and let himself focus on his brother. Even in a sea as unexpected and turbulent as the one he’d just unwittingly sailed, Dean was his rock. Sam never ceased to be amazed at everything his brother was, everything he did. There was still a faint echo of the heady scent of his brother on the air, but it had been overpowered pretty rapidly by surprise, fear, worry, and concern when Dean had been woken up by Sam’s panic and subsequent freak out. Sam let himself nuzzle into the reassuring feel of his brother’s hand.

“Hey, yeah, that’s it. Better now?” Dean was still speaking kindly, encouraging. Sam watched his eyes wander the room, softly lit by the morning sun that spilled in through the colourful panes of glass.

“What was that about, huh?” Dean muttered that aloud but it seemed to be more for him than Sam, since it wasn’t like Sam could answer anyway. He could see the wheels turning in his brother’s head as he stood there, no longer talking. He was still petting at Sam’s face, scratching under his chin with one hand and smoothing the fur back with the other, and he was still just in his boxers, the rest of his clothes dry and laying out near the low-burning fire. By the time Dean spoke again, Sam’s tail had tentatively started wagging behind him, Dean’s hands and calmness having chased away the panic and worry that had wound Sam up so much before. 

“Listen, Sammy.” Dean brought his attention more directly to Sam, and he gave right back. His ears perked up at the sound of his name and he looked Dean right in the eyes, his tail stilling just as Dean’s hands on him did the same.

“I don’t… I don’t know enough about what’s going on here. There’s some bad shit going down, and you and me, well, looks like we’re stuck in the center of it. Bobby though- he’s been lookin’ into it. We gotta- I gotta talk to him. We have to go down the mountain, alright? My phone is useless out here it’s the only way. You gotta come with me though. I’m not leaving you, Sam. Not-” he swallowed thickly and Sam tracked the movement of his throat with his eyes, the way Dean’s expression was pained for the briefest moment before he shook it off. “I’m just not leaving you. That’s it. We’ll figure out the rest as we go, it’ll be like old times, huh?” He smiled at Sam weakly, knowing full well he was trying to be reassuring for both their sakes. 

Sam huffed out a long breath. He had no way to explain to Dean that he couldn’t leave the boundaries of the estate. Dean would just have to see for himself. Sam wasn’t worried about the same things that plagued his mind before - with Dean nearby he trusted he wouldn’t hurt anybody he didn’t mean to - but a small part of him worried if he tried to leave that the Yellow-Eyed Demon would somehow know. His visits had been very few but none had been pleasant. Sam’s first concern was keeping Dean safe while he could, and the demon would factor into the plan poorly. Sam was frustrated just _thinking_ about how he was at the mercy of that bastard whenever he was around and bit back a growl. Instead, he slowly nodded so Dean knew he understood. 

“Atta boy,” Dean grinned at the acknowledgement and gave Sam a good few pats before making his way towards the hearth to collect his things. Sam sat patiently while Dean dressed, and when he went upstairs to collect his bag Sam went outside to relieve himself and wait for his brother.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Dean tried not to worry about Sam while he packed his things and carefully made his way back down the great staircase on his own. His leg was doing considerably better but the stairs were still the biggest pain, and he wanted to take it easy on account of the walk down the mountain. It was going to be slow going but at the end of it he’d get in touch with Bobby, and he’d know what to do. 

Sam wasn’t in the library and Dean was not surprised to find him outside in the courtyard, pawing at the earth and nosing around. It was so _weird_ seeing Sam like this. And Dean knew weird, he did; their life had always been full of it but his baby brother-turned-gigantic-monster was in another league entirely. He didn’t know how much Sam got from him though, so he was determined to be cool about it. Dean needed Sam to trust him, needed to let him fix this mess after all these years.

“Hey, buddy!” He called out as he stepped away from the castle, closing the doors behind him. His bag was slung over his shoulder and he made his way easily enough. Sam had stopped where he had been sniffing at some roses at the sound of Dean’s voice, ears up and tail moving, and then bounded over. It was an intimidating sight, all that muscle, fur and teeth coming right at him, but Dean forced himself to meet it head on, smile on his face as Sam slid to a halt just in time. Dean didn’t even hesitate when his arm shot out so his fingers could work through Sam’s fur. It had become second-nature in about a blink, and Dean wasn’t going to dwell too deeply on the implications of that either.

“Let’s get the hell outta here, Sammy.” He started off towards the wrought iron gate that enclosed the courtyard and Sam followed at his side. 

The morning was pleasant. The sun was up and the snow from the night before was all but gone, the wind mercifully still. Nevertheless, it was cool enough that Dean was thankful for Sam’s hoodie under his jacket as they walked, even if it might not have been smelling particularly fresh anymore. The trees were tall and half-bare at the crossroads of the seasons, which it seemed to Dean had happened rather quickly while he’d been immobilized in the castle; the woods and fields on his initial journey to find the estate had been awash in luscious green mere days before. He was glad to be getting out of dodge now before winter set in fully. Sam might have his fur to keep him warm but Dean couldn’t exactly say the same. 

They walked on in silence and it felt a little unsettled to Dean. He knew Sam couldn’t talk back but all this time they’d been apart and Sam was with him now, there was so much to tell. And Dad- _Dad. Fuck_. Dean choked a little, tried to cover it with a cough and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. Sam didn’t miss the sound or movement, and from where he walked alongside Dean he cocked his head as if to ask if he was okay. Even as a freakin’ fur giant nothing Dean did seemed to get past his kid brother. 

“‘S nothin’, Sam.” He said quickly, even though he knew Sam might still recognize his tells. Sam was going to have to find out about Dad eventually, but no way was Dean going to tell him that while he was in beast mode; there were just too many unknowns, and at least two of them were teeth and claws so, yeah. But Dean couldn’t keep up the silent act much longer. He’d just have to settle for something a little safer. 

“So, uh, Sammy there’s…” Dean laughed a little, half-heartedly. “There’s so much to tell you, man, but it’s not like we can _talk_ when you’re like this, you know? I’m just gonna have to leave lots ‘til we get you defurred and shrunk.” He looked over to check that Sam was following. His brother’s eyes met his and he nodded for Dean to go on. Dean took a deep breath, tried to sort through it all for something worth saying.

“Look, I don't know if you realize how long you've been missing but, it's been... a while. I’ve still been hunting, though mostly on my own. We uh, decided we’d cover more ground that way, you know? Hunt more things, save more people, expand the family business.... ‘cept it never really felt like it without you, Sammy." 

Dean was pretty proud he got that last bit out without revealing just how much he meant it. Sam had a lot on his plate, the last thing he needed was Dean unloading two plus years of grief and overwhelming longing. All that emptiness… Dean already felt more whole just in the presence of his brother than he had the whole time he was gone. Dean didn’t need to dwell on that, not any more. Sam didn’t need it either. Dean didn’t realize he’d stopped walking or how long he stood there, quiet, until Sam made a small sound next to him, those big, bright eyes locked on his. He saw that Sam understood; of course he did. Even before, they’d never needed to say much to each other. Words were overrated anyway, better suited for chick flicks. Sam and Dean? They’d always just understood each other. Sam nuzzled his nose against the side of Dean’s head and Dean laughed, scrunching his face up at the wetness of it.

“Ugh, Sam, c’mon man,” he was still laughing as he pushed back at Sam, and it felt as natural as any other time they might’ve given each other shit, bumping shoulders and nudging each other off sidewalks. They started walking again and Dean breathed a little easier.

“Bobby, he’s pretty much the same as when you left, the grumpy bugger. He’s been a huge help tracking you down, not that that should be much of a surprise…” Dean trailed off as he watched his brother. Sam was stepping cautiously, slow, and his eyes were everywhere.

“Sam, you okay, buddy?” 

His brother turned back to look at him and if Dean didn’t know any better he looked… resigned and, maybe, sad? He nodded though, so Dean continued, but he kept his eyes open and his hand on the grip of his gun, just in case. He had this dread feeling in the pit of his stomach though, some combination of worry that either Sam knew something Dean didn’t that he wished to God he could just fucking tell him, or there was something Dean was about to find out. Turned out it was the latter.

Dean was about a half step ahead of his brother when Sam yelped, sounding pained. He was frozen in place and Dean whipped around, dropping his bag so he could put his hands on him; they flew over the all fur-covered parts he could reach, checking for injuries they way he always used to; years since they’d been together but old habits - man, they die hard. 

“Sam! Sammy, what’s wrong? You okay?” 

Sam whined and backed up, like he was recoiling. Dean was startled.

“Me? Did I do something?” Dean asked quickly. Sam shook his head. Dean looked around. There was nothing special about where they were, no clearing, no nothing. Just more of the same, trees, rocks, leaves and sky.

“Okay, alright. Not me, well, that’s something, that’s good.” Dean was talking practically to himself, standing and pacing in front of his brother. A part of him had worried that it was something between them because of the weirdness in the library that morning, but if Sam was understanding him and being true, then something else was going on here. Sam just watched him pace, eyes following him back and forth, looking anxious but not pained anymore.

“You hurt, Sammy?” Dean checked a second time, just to be sure. Sam shook his head again. 

“... the hell?” Dean muttered, pacing still. He sighed and made himself stop. He saw his bag off to his right where he’d dropped it and moved to pick it up. A booming _whoosh_ sounded behind him and he turned instinctively, whipping his gun out from the back of his pants. Sam _roared_. The bellow was deafening and Dean startled, looking up as his brother reared back on his legs and stood tall, his head reaching into the branches above him and _Jesus_ Sam was scary. But in front of them was that fucking angel, standing there nonplussed despite the giant to his left that looked about 0.5 seconds away from taking a claw to his pretty boy face.

“Castiel, fuck! Get down!” He shot the angel sharp words before dropping his gun and turning to Sam. “Sam! _Sam!_ Hey, focus. It’s okay, buddy. Hey-” Dean was yelling so Sam might hear him over his own cries but tried to be reassuring at the same time. Sam dropped back to all fours as Castiel took a wise few steps back and Dean moved in, hands up and palms open. 

“Sam, it’s okay. He- he’s not here to hurt us. He’s on our side, kiddo, press pause, would ya? C’mon, Sammy, that’s it.” Dean was practically cooing by the time Sam’s growls subsided fully and he was quiet under Dean’s fingers, which were combing through the shorter fur of his face. He had lowered his head for Dean so their eyes were locked and it helped Dean to better calm him down.

“Listen, okay? His name is Castiel. He-” Dean frowned and glared at him over his shoulder a moment, earning him a confused look from their guest. “He’s an angel, okay? You gotta trust me on that one. He’s helping us out. He’s actually the one who tossed me your way, alright? Just- don’t bite his head off, huh?” 

Dean smiled at his brother and swore he could almost see him smiling back. Confident Sam wasn’t about pounce teeth first, he turned back to the angel.

“What the hell, Castiel?!” He snapped angrily.

“Uh- what?” Castiel still looked puzzled.

“Where have you been!? I mean, you freakin’ dump me in the middle of the English countryside without so much as a word of warning, and then, what- decide you have better things to do? Is that it? Did you know- that Sam- _this_ is Sam! ” Dean knew he was jumping down the guy’s throat but he was still pretty pissed. He was gesturing a little wildly in the direction of his brother beside him and Castiel sighed, looking mildly irritated. 

“I know _now_ , Dean. I didn’t when first I sent you here. I’ve much to tell you, Dean, and we must act quickly. The seals are breaking faster than the angels can stop them. Bobby is here, in the village with Eric. They’ve discovered-”

Dean’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish out of water; everything Castiel said was prompting more comments and questions and he didn’t know what to let out first.

“Dean, pay attention. There’s not enough time to explain everything. What matters is that your brother is cursed. The spell is called the Mark of the Beast and- what?” Castiel paused when he saw the look of realization on Dean’s face.

“Well, that- it makes sense. Sam’s got a weird new tattoo he didn’t have before. Red rose on his left arm.” 

“Yes, the Mark. It can only be borne by Lucifer’s true vessel. The curse transforms the vessel into this creature-” he gestured at Sam, who was sitting and listening with rapt attention, eyes darting between the newcomer and his brother. “- in order to strengthen and protect it. The creature is bound to the castle grounds, the edge of which, coincidentally, is where you’re at right now. Sam cannot pass this point. _You_ have crossed outside the boundaries for the warding on the castle, which is how I was just now able to see and locate you again. The beast is meant to- oh… that is interesting.” Castiel’s head tilted slightly as he paused, looking back and forth between Dean and his behemoth brother.

“What, Cas?” Dean snapped when the angel didn’t elaborate.

“Well, the beast form is meant to encourage the traits that the Devil will find welcoming in a host: anger, aggression, wildness, inhibition. Historically, the villagers have sent sacrifices up the mountain to feed the creature and give it an outlet for those very things. And yet, here you are, together, and Sam has not attacked you. He even seems quite responsive to you. Considering the strength of this curse, I’m quite… impressed, actually.” Castiel gave them an approving look and Dean shifted uncomfortably.

“Yeah, well, he’s my kid brother, so. Curse or not.” Dean muttered indignantly, even though he knew that’s not how curses worked. Castiel seemed thoughtful, then nodded, a small smile on his face that inexplicably made Dean a little uneasy, like the angel knew something about them then that Dean didn’t, which logically he probably did, but that wasn’t the point. Castiel finally continued.

“Anyway, Dean, there is a way to break the curse.” He paused briefly, giving Dean a hard look when his eyes lit up and he opened his mouth to speak. “You may wish to postpone your jubilance until you hear all I have to say.” Dean closed his mouth again and nodded for him to continue.

“God created a special weapon, a blade that is capable of killing the beast or breaking the curse. I’m sure I can track it down. The blade must be used to sacrifice the blood of the archangel’s vessel. The blood must be spilt over an enchanted object to which the power of the curse is tied. As with all the other valuable pieces in this scheme, we believe the object is back in the castle where it, like Sam, is being protected.”

Dean listened with growing displeasure. The word ‘sacrifice’ was almost never a good one.

“Great,” he grumbled. Of course, they’d barely left the damned place and now they’d have turn around and head right back. “What the hell am I even looking for, Castiel?”

“The Father, Bobby and I have discussed it and we’re quite certain it will be a rose.”

“Oh, well, yeah, of course it is.” Dean scoffed. “‘Cause there aren’t a gazillion of those around here.” Castiel gave him a stern look.

“You should know it when you see it. Much like a hex bag or other enchanted objects, it should be obviously _different_.”

Dean sighed. 

“Sure, Castiel. Fine, whatever.” Dean went to turn away from the insufferable ‘celestial being’ but the movement didn’t agree with his leg. He winced a little and readjusted his weight, huffing out a “what now” as Castiel eyed him suspiciously.

“Dean, are you injured?”

Dean groaned, exasperated.

“Yeah, a bit. It’s fine, though. I’m managing. Wait- what’re you- _hey!_ ” Dean tried to back up but found himself pressing into Sam’s hulking and unmoving forearm as Castiel stepped forward into his space, the first two fingers on his right hand coming up in an unfortunately familiar gesture. Sam shifted behind him with a threatening growl as the angel’s fingers made contact with Dean’s forehead. Dean tensed up, expecting God only knows what, and he shot a hand back to steady Sam, but a subtle flash of warmth spread through his body and then was gone just as fast, all the pain in his leg vanishing along with it.

“Cas?” Dean looked at him incredulously, glancing down at his leg where he flexed it easily, pushing down on it fully.

“I healed your injury. I also etched a tracking sigil onto your ribs so I can find you again once I’ve acquired the weapon.” Castiel responded plainly. Dean just blinked. Okay, so maybe the angel wasn’t _entirely_ useless.

“Yeah, I- that’s good, smart. Well, thanks. Really.”

Castiel just nodded in his usual way, though Dean thought he might’ve caught a glimpse of a smile for the briefest of seconds.

“You are welcome.” 

“Well, alright then. Let’s get this show on the road! Castiel, you get out of here, find that damn blade. We’ll hunt down the rose.”

Castiel nodded.

“Good luck, Dean.”

Another _whoosh_ and flutter and Castiel was gone. Sam startled again but just in a flinch, blinking. Dean groaned and dragged a hand down his face before looking up at Sam.

“You follow all that, Sammy?” He knew Sam didn’t have all the background, but he hoped he’d at least heard everything Castiel was saying. Luckily, Sam nodded. He even looked excited; his tail was swishing in the dried leaves and grass, his big pink tongue hanging out of his open mouth. Dean looked at him with raised eyebrow and tried not to feel too hopeful.

“Sam, you don’t know where the rose is, do you?” He hazarded a guess.

Sam’s toothy mouth opened all the more and he nodded enthusiastically.

“Un-freakin’-believable. Alright, kiddo, lead the way!”


	15. Chapter Fourteen

On the way back to the castle they ran, if for no other reason than Dean was all too keen to stretch his leg and feel less gimpy than he had since he’d landed himself in this mess. If there was an undercurrent of urgency growing in his veins as he replayed everything Castiel had said, then that was his business. Dean was feeling the start of the familiar rush; they were on a case, they had leads, concrete plans, things to do. This was where Dean thrived, and the stakes here were not like many he’d ever played before; do this right, and he was going to get his not-so-baby brother back. Dean’s mind started to wander in the direction of what their life might look like back together in the Impala, all messed up and awkward because Dean had maybe been spending some of their time apart thinking about his brother’s dick, which wasn’t, strictly speaking, kosher in any universe he knew of, so he promptly shut it all down in favour of focusing on all the things still between now and then. Dean would worry about his fucked up fantasies on his own time, when Sam was safe and appropriately Sam-sized again. His brother lumbered alongside him, easily keeping pace with his giant strides, and Dean was panting and grinning as they slowed down inside the open gate and approached the castle door. 

When they entered the great vestibule, the cavernous halls remained silent as usual, but there was an eeriness present that made Dean's skin prickle. He couldn’t remember if it had always felt this unsettled inside the castle and he just hadn’t noticed until he left and came back, or if there was something else that was different. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that they were so near to the end of this mess and it was too much to expect that things would go smoothly. Either way, Dean rummaged through his duffle bag and hauled out the Colt, loading it with the last few bullets and tucking it in his jeans right next to his .45. It wasn’t exactly comfortable but demons were involved in this garbage and Dean wasn’t taking any chances. Sam sat patiently and watched, tilting his head at the sight of the antique handgun. Dean smirked at him.

“You’re not gonna believe me, Sammy, but this here’s the actual, honest-to-God Colt. Dad pulled some miracle out of his ass to get it, I don’t even know. All that matters is if that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch shows up he’s getting one where it counts.”

Sam made an encouraging sound and pawed the ground excitedly as Dean smoothed his shirt down at the back over the guns. 

“Alright, Sam.” Dean stood back up. “Where to?”

Sam started off towards the library and Dean followed at his side. Sam was on a mission, and once they were past the big wooden doors he went straight for the farthest corner, past the fireplace. Tucked in behind another wall of bookcases was a door Dean hadn’t noticed before. Sam sat in front of it and looked at Dean expectantly.

“In there?” He asked, pointing.

Sam nodded and cocked his head upwards. Dean had the feeling that the doorway might lead up to one of the castle’s spires, and he was suddenly extra thankful that Castiel had patched him up. Dean reached for the door and tugged it forcefully. It groaned and creaked loudly on its hinges from disuse.

“Don’t spend a lot of time in here then,” Dean surmised as he wrestled the door all the way open so Sam might be able to squeeze through the frame after him. Sam huffed and shook his head. There was a look in his eyes that Dean couldn’t quite read, but it didn’t look promising. Dean felt it too - that eerie feeling worsening, heavy and tense, ominous. He poked his head into the dark on the other side of the threshold and was not surprised to find a winding staircase inside. It looked like a tower after all. He pondered the steps a moment, wondering if Sam could manage them, but then he knew what was up there so supposedly he’d made it up them before. 

“Hang tight,” Dean said, fixing Sam with a look. His brother sat in front of the open doorway and watched as Dean went back to the fireplace. He took an unlit torch from off the wall next to it and held it for a moment over the flames. When it was lit he returned to Sam’s side.

“Let’s get that rose then, huh?” He started into the stairwell and heard Sam shuffle behind him. He growled a little as he shrank to get through the doorway and then was plodding awkwardly up the stairs as Dean led the way, brandishing the torch to cast light up ahead. 

The stairs were annoyingly high and Dean would’ve been lying if he tried to say he wasn’t huffing a little by the time they reached the top, and there was a bead or two of sweat on his temple that would have betrayed his slight exertion in any case. Dean was transfixed by the sight before him, only snapping out of it when Sam’s giant head was nudging his backside to get him to step into the room so he could join him. Hardly taking his eyes from the centre of the room, Dean slid the torch into the open holder in the wall to his right and was barely thinking enough to move to let Sam squeeze in beside him. 

The room was bare, stone walls with no trappings, and two small, plain glass windows on either side. The bricks were cracked and visibly aged, particularly around the old windows which had been painted black to block any external light. The room was dark but for a dusty, gentle kind of glow that _wasn’t_ coming from the torch Dean had brought with them. In the centre of the room was small table and hovering above it was a rose. It was vibrantly blood-red, each petal perfect and smooth, the bloom full and large. It was about two inches in the air above the table and it seemed to be the source of the light, though it wasn’t illuminated so much that Dean could tell. He could hear Sam bristling beside him and he whistled low.

“I guess Castiel was right about that, anyway. We were always gonna know when we found it. Look at that, huh.” Dean finally took another step into the room when suddenly there was a _rush_ , a swooshing drop in pressure and then Dean was flung through the air and slammed into the wall behind him, cracking his skull and crumbling to the floor precariously close to the stairwell. Blinking to clear the painful haze, Dean could barely make out the shape of a man standing between him and the rose. But there was no mistaking the yellow glow of the shadowy figure’s eyes.

“Dean,” Azazel sneered, his mouth flicking up into a cruel smile as his gleaming eyes fixed upon him. “I’m almost impressed.” He wagged his eyebrows once and Dean was moving, scrambling to get back on his feet and grabbing the Colt as fast as he could. Azazel was already laughing.

“Sam, if you would,” he snapped his fingers and Sam was roaring; it sounded anguished and Dean instinctively turned to his brother. Sam was rearing back and when his massive paws hit the ground again Dean swore he felt the tower shake with the force of it. Sam’s teeth were bared and his eyes engulfed in darkness, the golden greens and blues nothing more than an echo. Dean swallowed hard and took a step back at the same time that Sam pounced. 

\---

Dean came to and his first realization was that he was outside. His face was damp, and as he ran his tongue across his lips, the coppery bitterness told him that some of the wetness running into his eyes and over his nose was blood. There was also a harsh rain peppering him, the sprinkles ice cold where they hit his skin. His body protested weakly as he struggled to sit up and look around, one hand shooting up to cradle his head and the other still clutching the Colt with a kind of desperate death grip. A quick glance around confirmed his location to be in the hard, grass-covered ground of the courtyard. He looked up through the slashing rain to where the spire containing the enchanted rose towered at least five stories above him. There was a massive beast-sized hole in the stonework, bits of which were scattered around him. He baulked to think he had survived that fall intact, but then his eyes fell on Sam. Sam must’ve broken his fall; it was the only possibility Dean's muddled mind could provide. His brother was sprawled out on his stomach atop of his own pile of broken stones, just out of arm’s reach, limbs askew and his back heaving with each strained breath.

“Sam,” Dean croaked. He pushed himself up, wincing with the effort and blinking the dark liquid out of his vision. 

“Dean,” an unfortunately familiar voice growled out from behind him. “Sit a spell.” 

Then the wind was knocked out of him - _again_ \- and Dean found himself slammed back on the ground, still desperately clutching at the Colt but choking a little against an unseen pressure at his throat. There was the crunch of boots on the grass getting closer as Dean struggled against the invisible force pinning him down and then the boot was on his wrist, at the juncture of the hand holding the Colt, and the tread was cutting painfully into his skin. 

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Azazel chided, using his tongue to make a series of disapproving _tsks_ as he looked down at him. One hand was on his hip and the other he had extended, the enchanted rose hovering above his palm. “You know, you got pretty fierce after I took Sam away from you; thought I might have to worry, but you didn’t get anywhere quick now did ya?” He chuckled. Dean was writhing underneath him, trying to keep his fingers closed tightly on the gun, but the pressure on his wrist was borderline unbearable and whatever Azazel was doing to keep him crushed against the earth made it hard to suck in any air. He was trying to crane his neck to check on his brother and from where he was it looked like Sam still hadn’t shaken off the fall.

“Sam!” he gasped, trying his best to ignore the unnerving eyes and voice of the demon above him. Azazel only cackled in response.

“Sam is fine, Dean. He’s better than fine. A little tumble isn’t going to do more that slow him down a moment. That beast is one of the strongest things on this planet, until Lucifer steps inside, and then, well, that’s a whole different ball game.” 

As if on cue, Dean heard Sam start to shift. A moment passed and then his brother was standing behind Azazel, his breath huffing out as harsh growls, swirling visibly when it mingled with the cold, damp air, his eyes dark and unseeing. It was like he was a living statue, not moving once in position, just waiting to be commanded, little more than a well-trained attack dog. Dean gasped for more air and the demon only laughed again, the sound tasting like ash in Dean’s mouth and making him feel bile rise at in his throat.

“Dean, I really gotta hand it to ya, though. Didn’t expect to find you here, in the end. Didn’t expect Sam _not_ to have mauled you to pieces and still be picking your bones out of his teeth, actually. Seems like you two have something goin’ on that even I didn’t count on. But what’re you gonna do? Nothing. ‘Cause it was always gonna go down like this, Deano. Sam’s bigger than you, better, destined for the best. And since you are fixin’ to get in the way, I’m just gonna have to take you out of the picture. Too bad you won’t be able to see Sam in all his glory.” 

Azazel smirked and winked down at Dean where he was struggling, silently cursing as the edges of his vision were dark now, not just with blood, but from the waning oxygen in his veins. _This was really it._

Or maybe it wasn’t. A blinding light flashed and a loud rustle of feathers sounded just to Dean’s right. By the time Dean got his eyes open and could see past the echo of the light inside his eyelids, he could breathe again and even sit up. Castiel was standing next to him, his arm outstretched, and Azazel had been flung back. Dean shimmied away on impulse, needing to increase the distance between him and the demon, and maybe because Castiel had such a menacing look on his face that Dean felt better being behind that, too. In the space he vacated, the rose slowly drifted down, stopping just above the ground. Dean started to struggle to his feet as Azazel did the same some fifteen feet away, Sam still rumbling and unmoving to the side. Dean was on his feet finally just as Castiel stalked towards the demon, closing in on him.

“Dean!” The angel called out behind him and with the other hand tossed Dean the sword, which seemed to manifest out of nowhere from the sleeve of his trenchcoat. 

Dean moved quickly to catch it with both hands. It was beautiful and for a moment Dean could only look at it with wide eyes and mouth agape despite the literal angel-vs-demon title fight that was about to go down. It was small and light enough that he could definitely manage it with one hand and the metal was absolutely gleaming, so smooth and shiny as to be almost white, and bright enough that for a second Dean wondered if it was actually illuminated. The sounds of the struggle pulled Dean’s eyes away from the blade in time to see Azazel snap his fingers just before Castiel got the palm of his open hand to old Yellow-Eyes’ forehead and - presumably - _smote_ the guy. It was like he burned up from the inside, painfully bright light glowing low and then bursting from his eyes and mouth before his entire body sizzled and disintegrated like coals breaking apart after a fire. Dean barely had time to register what had just happened - _the fucker was actually dead_ \- when his eyes flickered to Sam, who was shuddering and pressing his paws into the dirt with a growl.

“Sammy, _no!_ ” Dean hollered as his brother lunged forward. Castiel’s arms came up defensively and Dean could swear the earth shook when Sam sprung from it. The sounds he made as he knocked the angel down were unlike anything else Dean had ever heard and they were terrifying. 

“Dean, the blade!” The angel’s voice was muffled by the enormous creature snarling on top him. Dean frantically looked down at the sword in his hand and then back up to his brother.

“The hell I’m stabbing you with this,” he barely breathed as he dropped to his knees beside the rose where it still hovered above the ground, twirling peacefully as if completely removed from their current situation. Dean could hear Castiel struggling against his brother as he clumsily rolled up his sleeve to bare his forearm. 

“The spell never specified which vessel anyway. If it wants a vessel’s blood it can have mine!” He was talking to himself but it didn’t matter. The blade swept down the centre of his skin and he saw the long laceration as it filled with blood before he even felt it, the edge was so sharp. He hissed, delayed, as the pain of it set in and he twisted his arm so that the blood could run down his wrist and drip onto the rose. The first drops were slow and fell into the centre of the flower but as the bleeding really picked up, it filled the hollow space and started to pour over the petals. For a second, Dean was frozen, terrified that nothing was happening. Then the natural glow emanating from the rose began to grow. As the plant disappeared under the coating of his blood, the light continued to intensify. Dean looked up to find the struggle between the angel and his brother had stopped. Castiel was back on his feet, blood smeared in streaks down the lapels of his coat and dripping from a shining blade in his right hand held loosely at his side. Sam stood panting on all fours a few feet away, claws and fur shiny and dark as well, wet from the rain and stained red from the fight. The rose shone brighter under Dean’s clenched fist as he started to sway. Lightheadedness was setting in but Dean couldn't - wouldn’t - tear his eyes off his brother who had gone utterly still and was suddenly aglow with the same light that was radiating from the enchanted flower. Dean sucked in a startled, desperate breath as his brother's massive form lifted off the ground, hovering in the air in front of Castiel, who seemed no less mesmerized. Dean’s breathing was getting more shallow with each inhale and his vision was starting to swim even as he swore he could see the monstrous body starting to shrink, the long fur shortening and receding into the skin. His heart was aching even as it continued to pump his life out to spill on the ground and Dean couldn’t fight it anymore. His eyes closed and he tried to open his mouth and speak, but instead he silently collapsed to the blood-covered earth beside the stained rose, Sam’s ever-present name dying on his lips.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Dean inhaled sharply and startled awake, blinking his eyes against the onslaught of rain mercilessly pummelling his face. Squinting through the downpour and his heavy, waterlogged lashes, he saw Castiel’s face looming above him, his first two fingers out as if to suggest he may have just saved Dean’s life with another healing tap to the forehead. He gave Dean a subtle smile as Dean took his outstretched hand to get pulled to his feet. Castiel was drenched and had lost his coat; as he took a step back to give Dean room, his upper body was covered only with an inside-out, blood-stained, blue tie haphazardly flipped over one shoulder and a near-translucent shirt that clung to his body. Dean would’ve asked what happened to his jacket except that by moving aside Castiel cleared Dean’s field of view so that he could find the answer on his own. The sight literally took his breath away. Dean couldn’t draw in air; he couldn’t move and he couldn’t speak. _Sam_ was there, lying on the ground, his beautiful face frighteningly pale in sharp contrast to the shock of hair covering his head and falling to his shoulders, an echo of fur that was the only reminder of the creature he had been. His features were bloodless and his eyes were closed and he was naked, his too-still form shielded only by the soaking wet material of Castiel’s trenchcoat.

“I had to wait until the transformation was complete before I healed you. I had to ensure the spell was satisfied with your sacrifice. He hasn’t woken yet, Dean.” Castiel said gently.

Dean was just regaining control of his limbs enough to begin thinking about stumbling over to Sam’s side when an ethereal shadow blossomed out of the bloody ground before them. Dean stepped back, startled, as the shimmering cloud moved and formed a shape that, as it became clearer, was painfully familiar.

“ _Dad?!_ ” Dean sputtered, hardly a whisper and completely shocked. His father’s face softened into a smile and the ghostly hand reached for Dean’s shoulder. Dean trembled under the phantom touch.

“The only reason your father was trapped in Hell was because of his deal with Azazel. With the demon gone, he’s now free to move on to Heaven.” The angel’s voice was kind as he explained.

John’s eyes drifted over his shoulder to where Sam was still laying on the ground, then turned back to Dean. He nodded slowly, still smiling, looking at him in a way Dean had never seen before. 

_You did good, son. I’m proud of you. Take care of your brother_.

John didn’t say it aloud but Dean felt the words in his very bones, echoing in his core. He nodded back and tried to remember to breathe even as he felt a single tear mix with the rain that zigzagged down his cheek. John gave Dean’s shoulder a final squeeze and stepped back. His form flashed brightly then dissolved back into a shimmer that rose up and ascended until it was lost, indistinguishable from the rain and mist surrounding the castle.

Dean could barely keep himself steady. He tried not to trip over himself as he faltered towards Sam, dropping uncaringly to his knees at his brother’s side. Sam looked like Sam, the same beautiful kid he always was, except he had filled out; Dean could see the lean bulk of the muscles of his chest through the coat and his arms were haphazardly laid out on either side of his head. His hair was even longer than it had ever been before, though it was dark with rain and there were pieces plastered to his forehead. His mouth was parted slightly and the only things that kept Dean from panicking were the visible puffs of air that were proof he breathed.

“S-Sam,” he stuttered out, tentatively reaching for his brother’s face. “Sammy, hey, kiddo, c’mon. W-wake up, would ya?” He tried to laugh but it was forced through all the other things that were flooding his system and making it so fucking hard to breathe, his chest so tight he thought it might collapse inwards at any moment. He only hesitated for a second before he let his fingers brush the smooth skin of Sam’s face, sliding the strands of his hair out of the way and tucking them behind his ear.

“Sammy, _please_ ,” Dean begged, and Sam finally stirred. He groaned quietly as he shifted against the grass, the sound so perfectly human that Dean knew he was seconds away from crying like a child and he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. He didn’t even hear the sudden _whoosh_ behind him as Castiel left. Sam’s eyes fluttered open and he jerked a little, the rain falling into them, but he blinked all the more and then all that hazel was focused on Dean and went wide. 

“Dean?” He exhaled, his voice small. He started to prop himself up and lifted a hand up as he did, looking at his fingers in disbelief. “Am I… dreaming?” 

Dean couldn’t get any words out. All he could do was shake his head. As Sam shifted in front of him Dean reached out to help, but then he was almost knocked over by the force of his brother throwing himself at him.

“Dean!” Sam was clutching at his brother like it was all that would keep him alive, burying his face into the space at Dean’s neck.

“Jesus, _Sam_ ,” Dean echoed, and it felt like something knocked loose in his chest, all the tension bleeding out of him in a sob as he let his hands fly over his brother’s body, one hand skimming his back, pressing him close and the other fisting into his ridiculous hair. Dean squeezed him hard enough to hurt, just to make sure it was real. They were both crying when they finally loosened their grips and Sam leaned back so they could look at each other. Dean’s hand stayed buried in Sam’s hair, so similar to what had only just before covered the entirety of his inhuman form, and Sam looked up at him through rain and tears with a grin dimpled so deeply it made Dean bite back on a sound he wasn’t going to try and name. Sam was human, healthy, and right in front of him, and Dean was pretty sure the immense happiness he felt was making him short-circuit. 

“I knew you’d come for me,” Sam said simply against the tidal wave of words that Dean didn’t even begin to know how to say. It made Dean’s breath catch in his chest and his thoughts stilled finally if only for a split second, because then Sam’s hands were fisted in the front of his shirt and then Sam’s lips were pressed hard against his own, firm and insistent, and Dean’s whole world flipped upside down. The panic was negligible because of how quickly it was replaced with other things entirely, the realization that _Sam_ was kissing _him_ and _what the hell_ and _fuck it_ and then Dean was kissing him back, a new kind of relief washing over him. By the time he broke the kiss, he was panting, and laughing, and he descended on his brother’s face lips first to kiss at everything he could reach, just to reassure himself that _he_ wasn’t dreaming. By the time he finally gave it up, Sam was laughing and squirming in his arms, stuttering out Dean’s name when he got enough air to do it, and trying to turn the tides by kissing back whenever he got the chance.

\---

Cas showed up soaking wet, creating an instant puddle in the middle of Father Eric’s small living room, and Bobby and the priest both lept to their feet. He told them everything that had happened while Bobby sank back into the armchair, stunned, euphoric, and shocked in particular when he mentioned John. Bobby’d been angry with John a great deal of the time, but his heart softened when he heard that part of the story, thankful the stubborn idjit got that last moment with Dean before passing on to where he belonged. Eric was enraptured by the tale, hanging onto every word, and he only gave Castiel a moment before his face changed and he narrowed his eyes at the angel.

“And you just left them there? In the rain?” Eric wondered, concerned.

Angels didn’t blush, but if they did, Castiel would have. Bobby’s eyes on him were questioning, too.

“Um,” he stuttered uncharacteristically under their scrutiny. He was well aware that his people skills were rusty, and he didn’t understand all the ins and outs and subtleties of human interactions, but he wasn’t born yesterday. Far, far from it. He also knew soulmates when he saw them, and brothers or not, a shared soul transcended everything earthly and then some; nothing else would have been able to keep Dean safe from Sam while he was the beast. Castiel wondered distractedly if maybe this was another failsafe that God had put into play to undermine the success of Lucifer’s followers. Surely it was something that demons and the Devil himself could not feign to understand much less anticipate.

“Castiel?” Bobby interrupted his thoughts, sharing a look with Eric, and Castiel blinked, unsure of how long he had stood there quietly in his own thoughts.

“The boys, yes, well, they-” He tried to think of a reason for having left them to their own devices, just temporarily, but none came to mind that might suffice as answer for the men in front of him. He was about to stutter through something else when he heard, clear as day, Dean’s voice. _Uh, Cas? Little help here?_

“They’re calling me, actually. We’ll be back presently.” Castiel said and disappeared without further explanation.

Two flashes later and he was back in the living room with Dean and Sam in tow. The puddle on the floor was now a small lake, the water slowly inching into the kitchen, not that anyone noticed. Dean had Sam wrapped up in Castiel’s sopping trenchcoat, his arms inside it and holding himself as he shivered against the cold. Dean’s arms were around him tightly, and both of them were dripping, shaking, and leaning into each other looking absolutely exhausted. Bobby said nothing but pulled them both in for a gruff hug, Sam laughing with the force of it and Bobby not giving a damn about how wet he was when he finally let them go. Sam eyed the room blearily and his face fell a little. Bobby swallowed hard, knowing what was coming.

“Dad?” Sam whispered, tilting his head up to look at his brother from where he was resting on his shoulder, the wobble in his voice evidence that he was just seeking confirmation for something he already knew; John’s absence could only mean one thing. Dean looked back at him with eyes that glistened again and his lower lip disappeared into his mouth as he shook his head, just barely. Sam didn’t say a word but quickly pressed his face to hide against his brother and Dean looked at Bobby, silently pleading.

Bobby ushered the boys into the spare room and Eric appeared a short while later with a couple of towels and a pile of folded clothes, warm and dry, with apologies about fit, because he hadn’t realized that Sam was, in fact, still a giant by human standards. Dean took the items from him with sincere thanks while Sam sat on the bed looking a little stunned, eyes flitting about the first room he’d been in in years that wasn’t the inside of a castle. Eric was quick to leave, eager to give the family some time alone, but then Dean nodded at Bobby and gave him a look the old man knew all too well: _it’s alright, Bobby. It’s Sam. I’ve got this._

Bobby knew he did. So he simply smiled at him and Dean smiled, too, and Bobby’s heart was so full to see that look on Dean’s face again. He stepped outside the room and pulled the door closed, going back to Eric and Castiel in the living room, where the priest was already making fresh tea. 

“Are you sure they’ll be okay in there?” Eric asked as he poured the boiling water from the kettle into the pot. “I feel poorly that I don’t have another bed to offer, separate rooms, something.”

Castiel pretended to be distracted warming his hands by the fire. Bobby just huffed a little laugh and gave Eric a sincere look.

“They’ve had pretty humble lives, Father. It’s hardly the most cramped they’ve ever been. Besides, after what they’ve been through, I don’t think Dean’ll be out of arm’s reach from his brother for a while yet.”

Eric hummed as he nodded at Bobby’s words, understanding.

Castiel cleared his throat and both men turned to him. 

“It would seem that the Apocalypse has been averted for the time being, now that Azazel is gone and Sam is no longer under the effects of the Mark. I will take my leave of you now, but know that you need only pray to me and I can return. Please, if you would tell Dean that, should he ever need anything.”

Both Eric and Bobby stood, reaching out their hands to him. He looked at them a moment then took them each in turn, receiving hearty shakes. 

“It’s been a blessing to meet you, Castiel. Thank you.” Father Eric said reverently and Castiel nodded.

“You are a worthy servant of our Father, Eric. Thank you for looking after His children.” 

“You certainly were unexpected,” Bobby started, “but thank you, for everything. I’ve got both my boys back in one piece and I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Castiel nodded again, solemn.

“Keep in touch, Cas.” Bobby said finally, taking a step back. There was the usual _whoosh_ and ruffling and he was gone.


	17. Epilogue

After Bobby left, Dean leaned a moment against the closed door to their room, the weariness washing over him, and he sighed deeply, his breathing easy now that that Sam was Sam again and right where Dean needed him to be. He turned around with the stack of towels and clothes in his arms and Sam was there, still wrapped in Castiel’s soaked trenchcoat, still dripping, and he was shaking where he stood in the centre of the room so as not to get the bed wet. Dean was still soaked, too, his socked feet squelching with each step he took to eliminate the distance between them.

Sam looked the same and yet different, too; he’d grown, that much was clear in his height and his muscle, but his face was still smooth and beautiful and his eyes - ever-fixed on Dean - were big and bright and saw into Dean like they always did. Sam was watching Dean in silence, looking every bit as tired as Dean was and then some. He was so, so pale and his skin was prickly with goosebumps from a chill Dean knew at this point had settled in deep. When Dean stood in front of his brother he had to look up a little to hold his gaze, and Sam just kept on watching, quietly shivering.

Dean set everything down on the nightstand to his right and reached out to start untying the belt of the coat. Sam’s arms still weren’t in the sleeves, instead inside the coat and wrapped around himself for added warmth, and Dean kept his eyes on Sam’s as he slipped his hands gently under the lapels to peel the sopping material from his brother’s body. Sam’s lips, which trembled a little, were tinged with blue, and Dean was focused on getting him dry and warm and tucked into bed. Sam swayed as Dean removed the coat and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. He was completely naked and Dean fought the impulse to let his eyes wander as Sam stood there, still watching him, completely calm. Dean’s own breath caught a little and he swallowed hard as he reached for the towel.

“Hold on to me, Sam,” he whispered. They were standing so close and Sam was shaking so hard when he started to lift his arms that it took near Herculean effort on Dean’s part not to do something rash like push his naked baby brother up against the wall behind him and lick into his mouth and warm him with his body, all of which were things he desperately wanted to do. Instead, he let Sam’s ice cold fingers find his shoulders and then Sam leaned into his big brother, letting their foreheads rest together as Dean wrapped the towel around him and started to pat him down. He rubbed his hands across Sam’s body with gentle pressure, trying to dry him and warm him some at the same time. Sam’s teeth chattered in his ear as he did and Dean made as quick work of it as he could, anxious to get Sam dressed. Dean stayed silent and focused even as he made sure Sam was dry _everywhere_ and he was impressed he didn’t linger, especially when he heard Sam suck in a breath and watched his eyes close and his bottom lip disappear between his teeth at the touch; Sam was starting to swell under the towel and Dean’s hand but Dean just reminded himself to breathe and carried on.

He set the damp towel in a heap on the floor and reached for the old set of pajamas that Father Eric had provided. Sam’s hands stayed on his shoulders as he knelt down and helped him into the pants one foot at a time, pulling them up and loosely tying the drawstring where they sat low on his hips. The pants were hilariously too short, barely skimming his ankles, but Dean couldn’t laugh about it because he was too distracted by the ridiculous cut of his brother’s flat stomach where it disappeared beneath the soft plaid fabric in a perfect vee. He cleared his throat a little as he reached for the matching sleep shirt, undoing the buttons and tucking Sam’s arms into the sleeves and then doing them up again. Sam might’ve been a giant but he was still Dean’s little brother the same way he’d always been, and Dean’s heart delighted in the tiny, nostalgic gesture of doing up Sam’s buttons even though his own fingers shook slightly, both from the pervasive cold and something else entirely that had everything to with being close to Sam. By the time Dean had finished with the top one and looked up, Sam was resting his forehead on Dean’s again with half-lidded eyes and a small smile. His mouth was so close, Dean would only have to tilt his head up just so- 

Dean cleared his throat again.

“C’mon Sam, let’s get you in bed okay. You’re freezing.” Dean started to move and help his brother to the bed behind them, careful not to touch him with his own clothes which were still wet. Sam huffed out a small laugh.

“ _You’re_ freezing, Dean,” his words shook like the rest of him but that was all he said by the way of protest, letting Dean steady him as he lifted back the covers and he slid underneath them. He knew, like always, that Dean would look after him first before attending to himself. Sam burrowed into the covers and turned on his side to keep watching his brother. When he settled, he smiled at Dean and Dean felt a warmth wash over him despite the cool damp clothes that were still plastered to his skin. Sam didn’t seem any more ready to take his eyes off his brother than Dean was ready to let him move out of arm’s reach. 

Dean stripped unceremoniously out of the wet clothes and added them to the pile on top of the towel on the floor. He felt Sam’s eyes on him the whole time and he didn’t let it make him shy, even when realized his breath was coming up a little short and Sam was playing with his bottom lip again and Dean was half-hard as he toweled himself off and pulled on the other set of old pajamas. When he was dressed and turned back towards the bed, Sam scooched back to make a little more room for him and Dean slipped into the small space alongside his brother. He could feel how Sam was still shivering, cold coming off him in waves, and as he lay down Sam started to tangle their legs together, making Dean startle at the touch of his icy feet through the thin cotton. Sam flinched and looked sheepish, and it made Dean think of that last night they’d had together, when he was just a young kid grinning at him from behind his shaggy hair. Here he was, nearly three years later, older but still that same kid with that same grin and it made Dean’s chest ache.

“I might have some socks,” he said absentmindedly and forced himself to turn away from Sam then, leaning over the edge of the bed to dig in his duffle. He felt Sam shift behind him, taking his legs back so Dean could move as necessary. He couldn’t see into his bag for the low light of the single lamp on the bedside table so he looked with his fingers and instead of socks his hands found the newspaper wrapped book, the material soft with wear and familiar for all the times Dean had held it and longed for his brother. As he clutched it in his hands now, he could still feel the cold radiating from his brother’s body behind him, and it hit him. _It was over. Sam was here now. It was really over_. His heart flew up to his throat and he choked in surprise on the sob that came out of nowhere. He brought his hands out of his duffle, one gripping the book and the other coming up to press into his eyes because _fuck_ he wanted to be done with crying - Sam did not need to see him like this - but it was too much and the tears fell despite him. His life had been turned upside down by Sam’s disappearance and he had been, at best, a shell of himself, but now they were together again and Sam made him feel whole, sealed up all his cracks, and they could be brothers again and Dean could be who he was meant to be. 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was soft and then he was shuffling closer, wrapping his arm around Dean’s waist and nosing behind his ear. Dean shuddered against him as he cried, releasing all the pain and anger and fear of the last three years, and Sam just held him close, making soothing sounds and telling him “it’s alright now” and “we’re okay” and planting tentative kisses on the back of his neck. When Dean finally composed himself he sighed deeply and he was still cradling the small gift in his hand. Sam tugged on his side to get him to roll over so he did. The bed was quite narrow, so once Dean had shimmied around a bit, he and Sam were nose to nose, with just a small space between them now occupied by Dean’s hands which still grasped the book. Sam wiggled his legs between Dean’s and when he brushed their noses together, Dean couldn’t help but think of how similar it was to when the beast had nuzzled into him earlier that very day. 

Sam looked at him then and in those eyes Dean saw everything he didn’t think he’d ever know how to say; all the love and adoration and need and longing and, damn them both, _want_ that lived in Dean’s heart, made up his very being, was shining back at him from his brother’s hazel eyes. He couldn’t stop himself; he tilted his head and caught Sam’s mouth with his, pressing their lips together, firm but chaste, just needing to communicate with Sam in a way he didn’t know how to put into words. For a moment he lingered there but then Sam was moving, reaching for one of Dean’s hands and pulling it to his face, his fingers weaving between Dean’s. Sam licked at the seam of Dean’s mouth, seeking entry, making a small pleading sound at the back of his throat, but - though it felt like it might kill him to do so - Dean pulled back. He felt Sam’s hand tighten on his, keeping it pressed to his cheek, and Sam pushed into it as he dropped his gaze for the first time since they entered the room. Dean still knew his little brother better than anything else and he could read the panic and the fear as clear as day; Sam was afraid Dean was saying no. 

Dean stroked his thumb along the soft skin of his brother’s face and leaned in for another quick kiss before nudging at Sam to look at him again.

“Just- not here, Sammy,” he breathed the words against Sam’s lips and felt it when his brother nodded in understanding. A moment passed and they just stayed close, sharing air, Dean cradling his brother’s face. Then Sam let go of his hand and hesitantly reached for Dean’s other where it was trapped between them, still tightly holding the book.

“Dean?” Sam asked as his fingers traced the edge of the package and Dean let go of his face to lean back a little so Sam could see. He pressed the item into Sam’s hands.

“I, um- this is- you were supposed to get this on the day… but then-” Dean made himself take a breath and look Sam in the eyes. “Happy belated birthday, Sammy.” 

Sam took the package in his hands and blinked at it. Dean watched him with a small smile, all he could muster at the moment considering his tenuous state of being. Sam’s mouth opened and closed slowly on words he couldn’t find to say. He looked back at Dean and Dean knew he saw it all; in the worn wrapping of the gift he’d held onto all this time was all of his suffering, everything he went through in Sam’s absence, and in the face of it all the gift was just this tiny gesture but it was also so much more. Sam’s expression was soft and his eyes glistened as he settled on the only words that made any sense, even though they would never - could never - be enough.

“Thank you.”

He kissed Dean quickly and hugged the book to him as he burrowed in against his brother’s chest. Dean slipped his arm around Sam’s waist, sighing as they settled, all wrapped up in each other like they used to do another lifetime ago. Dean had been dreaming about having Sam in his arms again for far too long and now that it was his reality he couldn’t help but smile. As he fell asleep - on the chance that maybe there was someone who’d actually care to hear - he breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

\---

Dean thought it would be weird, this thing between them. He thought it would be awkward somehow, that it would feel unnatural because of what they were, but it wasn’t at all. In the end, it was one of the easiest things he ever did, because letting it happen felt more honest than anything else in his life ever had.

Dean got them home the very next day. He’d woken up before Sam and very carefully extricated himself from their not-built-for-two bed without waking his brother and slipped out to discuss what was next for them with Bobby and Eric. Bobby had decided to stay a bit, since he was already there, and see some sights and reconnect with some old friends - hunters - he hadn’t seen in a good long while. Bobby had sensed Dean’s urgency to get Sam back home, somewhere safe and familiar, and he’d suggested asking if Castiel would be up for helping them skip the flight. Turned out the angel was more than happy to oblige. Dean had snuck back into their room and sat down on the bed, brushing the hair out of his brother’s face before kissing him awake. Sam had smiled against his mouth and made this quiet little sound as he came to that made Dean’s stomach flutter. Sam was just as eager as Dean to get stateside. They collected their things quickly and Castiel had been kind when Dean introduced them; Sam had been more than a little in awe, and maybe the angel had found that refreshing after Dean and Bobby but he seemed to take a liking to Sam either way, which made Dean roll his eyes and bristle on the outside though he beamed a little on the inside. 

Eric had been sad to see them go but he only smiled and wished them well and told them his doors were always open. Dean could tell he understood. Dean had hugged the man tightly and made sure he knew how to get ahold of him because Dean owed him - big time. Sam had stood closely by Dean’s side all the while, smiling and quiet and agreeable, and then, with a tap of Castiel’s fingers, they were gone.

They puttered around Bobby’s and it was like any other time they’d ever been there. Dean put their stuff away in their room and then met Sam in the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast. As they worked side by side to scramble eggs, fry bacon and make toast, it was like they’d lost no time at all, nudging each other out of the way, flicking food at each other, _laughing_ together. _Fuck_ Dean had missed the sound of it. He was undoubtedly going to go out of his way to annoy and tease and instigate shit with Sam so long as it earned him bitchfaces or laughter. He was dimly aware that maybe they had lots to talk about but as far as Dean was concerned it could all wait. Nothing was more important to him than this: helping Sam feel at home, doing normal, everyday things that his brother hadn’t been able to do in years and Dean had hated to do without him for just as long. It felt so fucking good, just making breakfast together, and even better to sit across from him at the table to share it. 

But then it was a little different, just subtly so, and Dean wasn’t complaining. He noticed that Sam lingered whenever they touched, leaning into him a little longer or staying his hand that extra moment more. As they ate together instead of kicking each other under the table Sam’s feet tangled with his. His little brother didn’t look at him while he did it, looking down at his plate where he was pushing his eggs onto his toast like he wasn’t paying attention to feet at all, but it made Dean grin around his piece of bacon. 

Sam moved to clean up after them but Dean cut him off, taking the plates out of his hand and mumbling something that might’ve been “sit your ass down” and also included “but don’t get used to it, princess” followed by a “newly human gets a pass.” Sam laughed and did as instructed, retreating to his chair and sipping his coffee while Dean stacked everything for the sink and put the rest away. He stood at the sink and started in on the dishes, content just knowing Sam was in the room, loving the feel of his eyes on him while he worked. He was on the last plate when he heard Sam get up again, the scrape of the chair on the weathered wood floor, the soft padding of his socked feet coming up behind him so dramatically different to the loud, heavy footfalls of the beast in the castle. He was just putting the plate in the drying rack when he felt Sam tentatively press up against him, snaking his arms around his waist. Dean covered Sam’s arms with his own and leaned into him, felt his little brother relax as he understood the green light Dean was giving him. 

Dean had thought, too, that on top of awkward and weird they would need to talk about this but words didn’t really seem relevant as Sam rocked their hips side to side and buried his face in the nape of his neck, his exhale there warm and reassuring. Dean felt so good in his brother’s arms he started to think that if Sam felt like this too - and it certainly seemed like he did - then maybe it was just something that simply _was_ , no explanations or overthinking required. Not a lot of things felt _right_ in Dean’s life, but Sam? Sam was quite possibly all the right he could ever need, more than enough to make up for everything else. He tapped the back of Sam’s hand to get him to loosen up and then twisted around. He leaned back against the counter and let his palms slide down Sam’s sides, stopping on his hips. Sam’s arms came up to rest on his shoulders and he smiled down at Dean, still swaying a little from side to side. Dean smiled back at him and brought a hand up to his chin.

“I fucking missed you, kiddo,” he admitted, and he felt the way Sam shivered at the nickname, felt the echo low in his own gut because it was different now, carried new meaning when it was spoken between them like this. It made Dean grin and he angled Sam’s face down to kiss him. Dean was gentle but he didn’t hold back this time, opening Sam’s mouth with his tongue and moaning at the first taste of him, coffee and bacon and _Sam_ , and the hand he had cupping Sam’s chin slid up along his jaw and into his hair. Sam whimpered and then his hands were moving too, one to the back of Dean’s head and the other sliding to his hip, their positions almost mirrors of each other. Sam deepened the kiss quickly, sucking on Dean’s tongue and then reaching his own past it and into Dean’s mouth, desperate to explore. Dean could feel his brother’s urgency in his hands where they gripped him and in the stiff heat of his cock where it was pressing into his thigh, Sam’s hips rubbing against him almost mindlessly. He was making these little sounds and _Jesus_ they were intoxicating, going straight to Dean’s dick, the cotton of the pajamas feeling like nothing and yet still too much between them, and Dean wished he could say he was surprised at how quickly he was falling apart at his baby brother’s touch but that would be a lie. Except this was _Sam_ and Dean was supposed to be taking care of _him_ so he finally broke the kiss, both of them panting, lips swollen and wet with spit and he couldn’t resist- he kissed Sam again, and then once more, quickly, and again, almost out of his mind with want for his brother’s mouth.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam whined, that little brother tone in a whole new way, and Dean felt it as a ripple across his body, settling at the base of his spine. 

“ _God_ , Sammy, I know. Come upstairs with me?” He phrased it as a question though he knew the answer without a doubt. The sound was rough even to his own ears and Sam’s flush deepened at his words. Sam was nodding before he found his voice to answer.

“Yeah, Dean. Please.” His reply was breathy and Dean didn’t need to be told twice. He kissed Sam again, hard and deep, earning him another beautiful moan before he took Sam’s hand and led him away. When they reached the stairs he pushed Sam to go ahead, keeping his hands on Sam’s hips and his eyes on that ass as they made their way up. Dean closed the door of their room behind them out of habit and when he turned around to face Sam again the certainty had faded a little from his brother’s face and instead he stood before him fidgeting his hands at his sides, looking nervous and perfect with that deep colour in his cheeks and his pupils blown wide and his lips still pink and puffy from their kissing. Dean’s dick twitched eagerly and he bit his lip against the noise that threatened to escape just at the sight of him.

“ _Sammy_ , Jesus,” Dean barely breathed it and then he was there, the distance between them gone as he took his brother’s face in his hands and kissed him, deep, insistent, and every bit as desperate as Sam had been downstairs. Sam didn’t disappoint him, letting loose more of those sweet whimpers that Dean was already addicted to. Then Sam’s hands were under his shirt, smoothing across his skin and pushing the material up as Dean walked them back towards the bed. He took his mouth off his brother long enough to let him tug off his shirt and then he was pushing him back. Sam looked completely debauched as he scrambled up the bed, his eyes, heavy with lust, fixed on Dean’s. He was trembling a little as he settled back against the pillow and eased his legs apart, a little shy but begging Dean into the space between them all the same. Dean wanted to sear the image into his memory forever.

“De-Dean, please,” he stuttered out between short breaths. “Need you.” He whispered it and it wrecked Dean, knocking that damn thing loose in his chest again the way only Sam had ever been able to do, and _Jesus_ his little brother was going to be death of him.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean practically purred it. “Wanna see you. Get naked for me.” He reached for his own pants but he didn’t take his eyes off Sam, who gasped and shuddered at Dean’s words so visibly that Dean had to chuckle. Dean’s pants and underwear were pooled at his feet and Sam’s fingers were still fumbling with the tie on his pants, dumb with want, and he was cursing under his breath his inability to get the loose knot undone. Dean dropped hands and knees to the mattress and started crawling his way up Sam’s body, pausing above his hips.

“Let me,” he murmured. He sat back on his knees between Sam’s legs and eased his hands under Sam’s to take over. Sam sighed, shaking, and one hand came up to card through his hair before he scrabbled for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving all the buttons done up. Dean tugged at his pants and pulled them down and off, taking his underwear with them and leaving Sam naked and sprawled out before him. He did groan this time. Sam looked fucking shy under the attention and it only made Dean ache more, precome beading up from the tip of him, dripping where he hung heavy between his legs, and he stalked up the length of Sam’s body to kiss him.

Sam arched into it, his hands reaching for Dean, first cautious but quickly sure, his grip tightening on Dean’s hips and then moving and palming forcefully at his ass, trying to pull them together, desperate for the friction. Dean held his hips up, teasing, laughing a little into Sam’s mouth as he keened under him, writhing wantonly and finally pleading.

“ _Dean_ ,” he begged, breathless. “ _Please_.” He moaned into Dean’s mouth, pawed and pulled at him and Dean relented, dropping down to thrust against his brother, and the contact made Sam cry out and throw his head back into the pillow. 

“Fuck, _Sam_ ,” Dean cursed, and he knew he could come just from this if Sam kept it up. He leaned forward to kiss at Sam’s exposed throat, nipping and licking at the little bites, tasting his skin and sucking over his pulse, feeling its hum against his tongue. With one hand he reached under the pillow and grabbed the bottle of lube he’d stashed there earlier and he pulled back.

“Sammy, look at me, kiddo.” He coaxed, nudging his jaw with his nose. 

Sam tilted his head back down so he could look at Dean, his hips slowing but still rubbing up and into him.

“Yeah, Dean?” He asked, punctuated by a squeeze of his hands as they slid up Dean’s back and clutched as his shoulders.

“Tell me you’re sure, Sammy. That this is what you want. Tell me to stop if it’s not-”

“Dean! _Shut up_ ,” Sam was laughing as he cut him off, tugging at his shoulders and lifting his head up to kiss him. Dean hummed happily against his mouth.

“I already said,” Sam murmured between kisses. “I _need_ you, Dean. Need this. You’re all I’ll ever need.” The words washed over Dean hot and cold, his heart full to bursting and his nerves alight. 

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean mumbled back into their kisses and then he started to make his way down his brother’s body, planting kisses here and there, until he sat back on his heels and coated his fingers with slick. Dean moved his one hand soothingly on Sam’s thigh as he reached out with the other to stroke his wet fingertips around Sam’s hole. Sam gasped at the first touch and his legs instinctively spread wider, making more room for Dean and giving him better access. Dean was dying to keep kissing Sam but it would have to wait; he was going to be careful. Dean watched his first finger disappear, swallowed up by the scorching heat of his brother’s body, and he had to use his other hand to tightly grip the base of his cock to fight his own orgasm. He took a few slow, steadying breaths before he started moving, pulling his finger in and out, adding another and loving the way Sam bore down on his hand, trying to get more. He took his time working him open, scissoring his fingers and savouring every feeling, the tight clutch of muscle and smooth heat of it, the wetness, the knowledge that he was carving a place just for him. Sam was out of control, writhing in front of him and chasing his hand, moaning, sweat beading at his temples and sticking his hair to his face, looking as beautiful as Dean had ever seen him. 

“Dean, please, _fuck_ , need you inside me, _Dean_ ,” he was babbling, mostly incoherent, but Dean got the gist of it. He gently took back his hand and Sam let out an anguished groan at the emptiness, but Dean could only bite his lip and echo the sound himself at the sight of his fluttering hole, stretched out, pink, and glistening with slick. Sam’s hands were frantic as they pulled at Dean again, insistent, and Dean moved quickly to coat his dick with more lube and a few easy strokes of his hand before shimmying forward on his knees to line himself up, guiding Sam’s knees back and up so his legs rested on his shoulders. He sucked in a breath as his he pressed the head of his cock against the loosened ring of muscle. Sam keened as Dean pushed in, slowly sheathing himself until Sam had taken him in completely. Sweat was dripping off his face where he hovered, panting, above Sam’s, dying to move and forcing himself to stay still, to let Sam adjust. He watched every expression on his brother’s face, first screwed up tight at the intrusion, the pressure and burn, then melting into something else, something blissful, his mouth parting and his eyes rolling back. Dean shook with the effort it took to wait and whispered encouragements against Sam’s ear. 

Then Sam was rocking his hips experimentally, so subtle, and it sent waves of pleasure across Dean’s body, pooling and coiling up tight at the base of his spine. 

“ _D-Dean_ ,” Sam stuttered out, digging his nails into the flesh of Dean’s ass. He didn’t need to be told twice.

Dean eased almost out and then pushed all the way back in and Sam was moaning again, bucking up to meet him. They found a rhythm and it was steady for a while, Sam’s hands scrabbling over Dean’s back as Dean devoured Sam’s cries with deep kisses, fucking into his mouth with his tongue just as desperately as he rutted into his body, into the place that belonged only to him, the place he knew he’d be coming home to for the rest of his life because there was no living without his brother if the last three years had taught him anything. 

Sam’s cock was rock hard and bouncing between them, rubbing against their stomachs with every thrust, painting their bellies with smearings of precome that were oozing almost endlessly from his tip. Dean was close and he could tell Sam was, too. Sam’s movements were jerky now and he was too mindless to kiss at his brother, instead breathing hard against his open mouth and uttering Dean’s name over and over again as he approached the edge.

“That’s it, Sammy, c’mon. Wanna feel you come, baby boy, _yeah_ ,” Dean egged him on, dying to feel the tight grip of Sam’s body when he came, and got his wish. Sam gasped as his orgasm hit him, curling up so his face was burrowed at Dean’s neck, clutching at his brother like he might fly away if he didn’t. His body tightened like a vice around Dean’s dick, and with one more thrust Dean was coming, too. He fucked Sam through it though his rhythm faltered and he moaned his brother’s name in his ear, licking at the shell of it as Sam’s body eased him through the final waves. There was a hot mess between them, sticky and wet, but Dean’s arms were shaking with the effort to stay up. He leaned back and let himself fall out of his brother. Sam hissed at the loss. Dean eased his brother’s legs down, planting a quick kiss to the inside of one knee, and then lay back down at his side, half on top of him despite the mess. He nuzzled into Sam’s neck to kiss and lick at his salty skin as they came down. He could feel Sam trembling and he wriggled to get the blanket out from under them and cover them up. Sam was half gone by the time Dean settled again at his side, pulling him close so he could breathe him in.

“All the time I was trapped there, even when it was hard to hold onto reality, you know… I always knew you’d come for me,” Sam whispered. Dean’s heart warmed.

“I will _always_ come for you, little brother.” He whispered back, kissing the top of Sam’s head. “My life… it doesn’t mean much without you.” 

Sam swallowed hard. He didn’t agree, of course. Dean was _everything_ , always had been, and his life could never be meaningless, but he knew what “I love you” sounded like on his brother’s lips, even if it had been years since he heard it. He kissed Dean’s side and squeezed him tightly. 

“I love you, too.” He said softly against Dean’s skin, smiling because it was the easiest thing in the world for him to say, because he really, really did love his big brother with everything he was. Dean gave him a quick squeeze back and then was running his hand lazily through Sam’s hair, scribbling on his scalp with his fingers and Sam fought the urge to purr.

They drifted off to peaceful sleep, and Dean wasn’t worried about a thing. He had Sam, _really_ had him now, and nothing else mattered. They’d get back to hunting and they’d make this work because it was who they were, and they’d be better for it. There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt in Dean’s mind that he and Sam belonged together, like this, and Dean could hunt anything - do anything - with Sam by his side. 

\---

Bobby returned five days later, popping into his living room with a muffled curse at the effects of being zapped halfway across the world by that damn angel, only to come home to two boys he hardly recognized in the middle of packing their bags and anxious to get back on the road. It wasn't so unusual that they would seem different - Dean was night and day compared to how he'd been while Sam was missing (for which Bobby was eternally grateful), and Sam, well, Bobby hadn't seen him in nearly _three years_ so he was bound to feel a little unfamiliar - but Bobby still knew his boys, and there was definitely something there that wasn't there before. As he caught them up on the rest of his stay in Europe and then he and Dean highlighted for Sam the most important parts of the last few years, it became apparent that, whatever the difference was, it was a good one, and it fit Sam and Dean like a glove. It had been _ages_ since Bobby had seen them laugh and smile so much, and his heart swelled near to bursting with the sheer relief of it.

An hour or two later, the brothers finally had all their gear stowed back inside the trunk of the Impala and fresh mugs of coffee in their hands; Sam’s lanky body was tucked into the passenger seat beside Dean, who was behind the wheel, right where they both belonged. Bobby had hugged both of them tightly, extracting a promise from Dean that they’d not be strangers, and Sam had even suggested that they would stop by again for Christmas, which was not too far off at all. As the Impala rolled down the drive, tires crunching over the frozen ground and a light snow dappling her shiny black hood, Bobby couldn’t help but chuckle and call himself an idjit, because, well, everything was right again in their world and - hell, if angels existed maybe even this was possible - he couldn’t help thinking that what the boys had found together looked a little something like happily ever after.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are love ❤️


End file.
